MISSY 


OF  GALIF.  LJSKAfnf.  LO« 


"  'But  surely  you  admire 
women  who  achieve,  women 
like  George  Eliot  and  Fran- 
ces Hodgson  Burnett?' 

"  'I'd  hate  to  have  to  take  one  of  them  to  a 
dance,'  said  Mr.  Briggs" 


MISSY 

BY 
DANA    GATLIN 

AUTHOR   OF 
"THE    FULL   MEASURE    OF   DEVOTION" 


FRONTISPIECE    BY 

W.  B.  KING 


GARDEN  CITY  NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1920 


COPYRIGHT,  1920,  BY 
DOUBLEDAY,    PAGE    &    COMPANY 

ALL  RIGHTS    RESERVED,  INCLUDING  THAT   OF  TRANSLATION 
INTO  FOREIGN   LANGUAGES,  INCLUDING  THE   SCANDINAVIAN 

COPYRIGHT,  1916,  BY  THE  CROWELL  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 
COPYRIGHT,  1918,  BY  P.  F.  COLLIER  &  SON,  INC..  AND  THE  INTERNATIONAL  MAGAZINE 

COMPANY  (HEARST'S  MAGAZINE) 

COPYRIGHT,  igig,  BY    THE  CURTIS  PUBLISHING  COMPANY.  THE  MCCLURE  PUBLICATIONS, 
INCORPORATED,  MCCALL'S  MAGAZINE,  AND  THE  INTERNATIONAL  MAGAZINE 

COMPANY  (HEARST'S  MAGAZINE) 

COPYRIGHT,  I92O,  BY  THE  INTERNATIONAL  MAGAZINE  COMPANY  (HEARSl'S 
MAGAZINE),  AND  DANA  GATLIN. 


TO 
VIOLA  ROSEBORO1 


2129821 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I    THE  FLAME  DIVINE      .......  3 

II     "YouR  TRUE  FRIEND,  MELISSA  M"      .     .  40 

III  LIKE  A  SINGING  BIRD 70 

IV  MISSY  TACKLES  ROMANCE 104 

V    IN  THE  MANNER  OF  THE  DUCHESS  .     .     .  138 

VI     INFLUENCING  ARTHUR '  176 

VII     BUSINESS  OF  BLUSHING 210 

VIII    A  HAPPY  DOWNFALL 255 

IX    DOBSON  SAVES  THE  DAY 284 

X    MISSY  CANS  THE  COSMOS      .     .     .     e     «  315 


VII 


MISSY 


MISSY 


The  Flame  Divine 

"JY/TELISSA  came  home  from  Sunday-school  with 
*"•*•  a  feeling  she  had  never  had  before.  To  be 
sure  she  was  frequently  discovering,  these  days,  feel- 
ings she  had  never  had  before.  That  was  the  mar- 
vellous reward  of  having  grown  to  be  so  old;  she  was 
ten,  now,  an  advanced  age — almost  grown  up!  She 
could  look  back,  across  the  eons  which  separated  her 
from  seven-years-old,  and  dimly  re-vision,  as  a 
stranger,  the  little  girl  who  cried  her  first  day  in  the 
Primary  Grade.  How  absurd  seemed  that  bashful, 
timid,  ignorant  little  silly!  She  knew  nothing  at  all. 
She  still  thought  there  was  a  Santa  Claus! — would 
you  believe  that?  And,  even  at  eight,  she  had  lin- 
gering fancies  of  fairies  dancing  on  the  flower-beds 
by  moonlight,  and  talking  in  some  mysterious  lan- 
guage with  the  flowers! 

Now  she  was  much  wiser.  She  knew  that  fairies 
lived  only  in  books  and  pictures;  that  flowers  could 
not  actually  converse.  Well  .  .  .  she  almost  knew. 
Sometimes,  when  she  was  all  alone — out  in  the  sum- 

3 


4  Missy 

merhouse  on  a  drowsy  afternoon,  or  in  the  glimmer- 
ing twilight  when  that  one  very  bright  and  knowing 
star  peered  in  at  her,  solitary,  on  the  side  porch,  or 
when,  later,  the  moonshine  stole  through  the  win- 
dow and  onto  her  pillow,  so  thick  and  white  she 
could  almost  feel  it  with  her  fingers — at  such  times 
vague  fancies  would  get  tangled  up  with  the  facts  of 
reality,  and  disturb  her  new,  assured  sense  of  wis- 
dom. Suddenly  she'd  find  herself  all  mixed  up,  con- 
fused as  to  what  actually  was  and  wasn't. 

But  she  never  worried  long  over  that.  Life  was 
too  complex  to  permit  much  time  for  worry  over  any- 
thing; too  full  and  compelling  in  every  minute  of  the 
long,  long  hours  which  yet  seemed  not  long  enough 
to  hold  the  new  experiences  and  emotions  which 
ceaselessly  flooded  in  upon  her. 

The  emotion  she  felt  this  Sunday  was  utterly  new. 
It  was  not  contentment  nor  enjoyment  merely,  nor 
just  happiness.  For,  in  the  morning  as  mother 
dressed  her  in  her  embroidered  white  "best"  dress, 
and  as  she  walked  through  the  June  sunshine  to  the 
Presbyterian  church,  trying  to  remember  not  to  skip, 
she  had  been  quite  happy.  And  she  had  still  felt 
happy  during  the  Sunday-school  lesson,  while  Miss 
Simpson  explained  how  our  Lord  multiplied  the 
loaves  and  fishes  so  as  to  feed  the  multitude.  How 
wonderful  it  must  have  been  to  be  alive  when  our 
Lord  walked  and  talked  among  men! 

Her  feeling  of  peaceful  contentment  intensified  a 
little  when  they  all  stood  up  to  sing, 

"Let  me  be  a  little  sunbeam  for  Jesus — " 


The  Flame  Divine  5 

and  she  seemed,  then,  to  feel  a  subtle  sort  of  glow, 
as  from  an  actual  sunbeam,  warming  her  whole 
being. 

But  the  marvellous  new  feeling  did  not  definitely 
begin  till  after  Sunday-school  was  over,  when  she 
was  helping  Miss  Simpson  collect  the  song-books. 
Not  the  big,  thick  hymn-books  used  for  the  church 
service,  but  smaller  ones,  with  pasteboard  backs  and 
different  tunes.  Melissa  would  have  preferred  the 
Sunday-school  to  use  the  big,  cloth-covered  hymnals. 
Somehow  they  looked  more  religious;  just  as  their 
tunes,  with  slow,  long-drawn  cadences,  somehow 
sounded  more  religious  than  the  Sunday-school's 
cheerful  tunes.  Why  this  should  be  so  Melissa  didn't 
know;  there  were  many  things  she  didn't  yet  under- 
stand about  religion.  But  she  asked  no  questions; 
experience  had  taught  her  that  the  most  serious 
questions  may  be  strangely  turned  into  food  for 
laughter  by  grown-ups. 

It  was  when  she  carried  the  song-books  into  the 
choir-room  to  stack  them  on  some  chairs,  that  she 
noticed  the  choir  had  come  in  and  was  beginning  to 
practise  a  real  hymn.  She  loitered.  It  was  an  es- 
pecially *  religious  hymn,  very  slow  and  mournful. 
They  sang: 

"  A-a — sle-e-e-ep  in  Je-e-e — sus — 

Ble-e-es — e  d  sle-e-e-ep — 
From  which  none  e-e-ev — er 
Wake  to  we-e-e-ep — " 

The  choir  did  not  observe  Melissa;  did  not  suspect 
that  state  of  deliciousness  which,  starting  from  the 


6  Missy 

skin,  slowly  crept  into  her  very  soul.  She  stood 
there,  very  unobtrusive,  drinking  in  the  sadly  sweet 
sounds.  Up  on  the  stained-glass  window  the  sun- 
light filtered  through  blue-and-red-and-golden  an- 
gels, sending  shafts  of  heavenly  colour  across  the 
floor;  and  the  fibres  of  her  soul,  enmeshed  in  music, 
seemed  to  stretch  out  to  mingle  with  that  heavenly 
colour.  It  was  hard  to  separate  herself  from  that 
sound  and  colour  which  was  not  herself.  Tears  came 
to  her  eyes;  she  couldn't  tell  why,  for  she  wasn't 
sad.  Oh,  if  she  could  stand  there  listening  forever! 
— could  feel  like  this  forever! 

The  choir  was  practising  for  a  funeral  that  after- 
noon, but  Melissa  didn't  know  that.  She  had  never 
attended  a  funeral.  She  didn't  even  know  it  was  a 
funeral  song.  She  only  knew  that  when,  at  last, 
they  stopped  singing  and  filed  out  of  the  choir-room, 
she  could  hardly  bear  to  have  them  go.  She  wished 
she  might  follow  them,  might  tuck  herself  away  in 
the  auditorium  somewhere  and  stay  for  the  church 
service.  But  her  mother  didn't  allow  her  to  do  that. 
Mother  insisted  that  church  service  and  Sunday- 
school,  combined,  were  too  much  for  a  little  girl,  and 
would  give  her  headaches. 

So  there  was  nothing  for  Missy  to  do  but  go 
home.  The  sun  shone  just  as  brightly  as  on  her 
hither  journey  but  now  she  had  no  impulse  to 
skip.  She  walked  along  sedately,  in  rhythm  to  in- 
ner, long-drawn  cadences.  The  cadences  permeated 
her — were  herself.  She  was  sad,  yet  pleasantly, 
thrillingly  so.  It  was  divine. 


The  Flame  Divine  7 

When  she  reached  home,  she  went  into  the  empty 
front-parlour  and  hunted  out  the  big,  cloth-covered 
hymnal  that  was  there.  She  found  "Asleep  in  Je- 
sus "  and  played  it  over  and  over  on  the  piano.  The 
bass  was  a  trifle  difficult,  but  that  didn't  matter. 
Then  she  found  other  hymns  which  were  in  accord 
with  her  mood:  "Abide  with  Me";  "Nearer  My 
God  to  Thee";  "One  Sweetly  Solemn  Thought." 
The  last  was  sublimely  beautiful;  it  almost  stole  her 
favour  away  from  "Asleep  in  Jesus."  Not  quite, 
though. 

She  was  re-playing  her  first  favourite  when  the 
folks  all  came  in  from  church.  There  were  father 
and  mother,  grandpa  and  grandma  Merriam  who 
lived  in  the  south  part  of  town,  Aunt  Nettie,  and 
Cousin  Pete  Merriam.  Cousin  Pete's  mother  was 
dead  and  his  father  out  in  California  on  a  long  busi- 
ness trip,  so  he  was  spending  that  summer  in  Cherry- 
vale  with  his  grandparents. 

Melissa  admired  Cousin  Pete  very  much,  for  he 
was  big  and  handsome  and  wore  more  stylish-look- 
ing clothes  than  did  most  of  the  young  men  in  Cherry- 
vale.  Also,  he  was  very  old — nineteen,  and  a  sopho- 
more at  the  State  University.  Very  old.  Naturally 
he  was  much  wiser  than  Missy,  for  all  her  acquired 
wisdom.  She  stood  in  awe  of  him.  He  had  a  way 
of  asking  her  absurd,  foolish  questions  about  things 
that  everybody  knew;  and  when,  to  be  polite,  she 
had  to  answer  him  seriously  in  his  own  foolish  vein, 
he  would  laugh  at  her !  So,  though  she  admired  him, 
she  always  had  an  impulse  to  run  away  from  him. 


8  Missy 

She  would  have  liked,  now,  in  this  heavenly,  reli- 
gious mood,  to  run  away  lest  he  might  ask  her  em- 
barrassing questions  about  it.  But,  before  she  had 
the  chance,  grandpa  said: 

"Why  Missy,  playing  hymns?  You'll  be  church 
organist  before  we  know  it!" 

Missy  blushed. 

'  'Asleep  in  Jesus'  is  my  favourite,  I  think,"  com- 
mented grandma.  "It's  the  one  I'd  like  sung  over 
me  at  the  last.  Play  it  again,  dear." 

But  Pete  had  picked  up  a  sheet  of  music  from  the 
top  of  the  piano. 

"Let's  have  this,  Missy."  He  turned  to  his  grand- 
mother. "Ought  to  hear  her  do  this  rag — I've  been 
teaching  her  double-bass." 

Missy  shrank  back  as  he  placed  the  rag-time  on 
the  music-rest. 

"Oh,  I'd  rather  not— to-day" 

Pete  smiled  down  at  her — his  amiable  but  conde- 
scending smile. 

"What's  the  matter  with  to-day?"  he  asked. 

Missy  blushed  again. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know — I  just  don't  feel  that  way,  I 
guess." 

"Don't  feel  that  way?"  repeated  Pete.  "You're 
temperamental,  are  you  ?  How  do  you  feel,  Missy  ? " 

Missy  feared  she  was  letting  herself  in  for  embar- 
rassment; but  this  was  a  holy  subject.  So  she  made 
herself  answer: 

"I  guess  I  feel  religious." 

Pete  shouted. 


The  Flame  Divine  9 

"She  feels  religious!  That's  a  good  one!  She 
guesses  she — " 

"Peter,  you  should  be  ashamed  of  yourself!"  re- 
proved his  grandmother. 

"She's  a  scream!"  he  insisted.  "Religious!  That 
kid!" 

"Well,"  defended  Missy,  timid  and  puzzled,  but 
wounded  to  unwonted  bravery,  "isn't  it  proper  to 
feel  like  that  on  the  Sabbath?" 

Pete  shouted  again. 

"Peter — stop  that!  You  should  be  ashamed  of 
yourself!"  It  was  his  grandfather  this  time.  Grand- 
pa moved  over  to  the  piano  and  removed  the  rag- 
time from  off  the  hymnal,  pausing  to  pat  Missy  on 
the  head. 

But  Peter  was  not  the  age  to  be  easily 
squelched. 

"What  does  it  feel  like,  Missy — the  religious  feel- 
ing?'; 

Missy,  her  eyes  bright  behind  their  blur,  didn't 
answer.  Indeed,  she  could  not  have  defined  that 
sweetly  sad  glow,  now  so  cruelly  crushed,  even  had 
she  wanted  to. 

Missy  didn't  enjoy  her  dinner  as  much  as  she  usu- 
illy  did  the  midday  Sunday  feasts  when  grandpa 
md  grandma  came  to  eat  with  them.  She  felt  em- 
>arrassed  and  shy.  Of  course  she  had  to  answer 
rhen  asked  why  she  wasn't  eating  her  drumstick, 
id  whether  the  green  apples  in  grandma's  orchard 
lad  given  her  an  "upset,"  and  other  direct  ques- 
tions; but  when  she  could,  she  kept  silent.  She  was 


io  Missy 

glad  Pete  didn't  talk  to  her  much.  Yet,  now  and 
then,  she  caught  his  eyes  upon  her  in  a  look  of  sar- 
donic enquiry,  and  quickly  averted  her  own. 

Her  unhappiness  lasted  till  the  visitors  had  de- 
parted. Then,  after  aimlessly  wandering  about,  she 
took  her  Holy  Bible  out  to  the  summerhouse.  She 
was  contemplating  a  surprise  for  grandpa  and  grand- 
ma. Next  week  mother  and  Aunt  Nettie  were  going 
over  to  Aunt  Anna's  in  Junction  City  for  a  few  days; 
during  their  absence  Missy  was  to  stay  with  her 
grandparents.  And  to  surprise  them,  she  was  learn- 
ing by  heart  a  whole  Psalm. 

She  planned  to  spring  it  upon  them  the  first  night 
at  family  prayers.  At  grandma's  they  had  prayers 
every  night  before  going  to  bed.  First  grandpa  read 
a  long  chapter  out  of  the  Holy  Bible,  then  they  all 
knelt  down,  grandpa  beside  his  big  Morris  chair, 
grandma  beside  her  little  willow  rocker,  and  who- 
ever else  was  present  beside  whatever  chair  he'd  been 
sitting  in.  Grandpa  prayed  a  long  prayer;  grandma 
a  shorter  one;  then,  if  any  of  the  grandchildren  were 
there,  they  must  say  a  verse  by  heart.  Missy's  first 
verse  had  been,  "Jesus  wept."  But  she  was  just  a 
tiny  thing  then.  When  she  grew  bigger,  she  repeat- 
ed, "Suffer  the  little  children  to  come  unto  Me." 
Later  she  accomplished  the  more  showy,  "In  My 
Father's  house  are  many  mansions;  I  go  there  to 
prepare  a  place  for  you." 

But  this  would  be  her  first  whole  Psalm.  She 
pictured  every  one's  delighted  and  admiring  sur- 
prise. 


The  Flame  Divine  I  r 

After  much  deliberation  she  had  decided  upon  the 
Psalm  in  which  David  sings  his  song  of  faith,  "The 
Lord  is  my  shepherd;  I  shall  not  want." 

How  beautiful  it  was!  So  deep  and  so  hard  to 
understand,  yet,  somehow,  all  the  more  beautiful  for 
that.  She  murmured  aloud,  "I  will  fear  no  evil — 
for  Thou  art  with  me — Thy  rod  and  Thy  staff  they 
comfort  me";  and  wondered  what  the  rod  and  staff 
really  were. 

But  best  of  all  she  liked  the  last  verse: 

"Surely  goodness  and  mercy  shall  follow  me  all 
the  days  of  my  life;  and  I  will  dwell  in  the  house  of 
the  Lord  forever." 

To  dwell  in  the  house  of  the  Lord  forever! — How 
wonderful !  What  was  the  house  of  the  Lord  ?  .  .  „ 
Missy  leaned  back  in  the  summerhouse  seat,  and 
gazed  dreamily  out  at  the  silver-white  clouds  drifting 
lazily  across  the  sky;  in  the  side-yard  her  nasturtium 
bed  glowed  up  from  the  slick  green  grass  like  a  mass 
of  flame;  a  breeze  stirred  the  flame  to  gentle  motion 
and  touched  the  ramblers  on  the  summerhouse,  shak- 
ing out  delicious  scents;  distantly  from  the  back- 
yard came  the  tranquil,  drowsy  sounds  of  unseen 
chickens.  Missy  listened  to  the  chickens;  regarded 
sky  and  flowers  and  green — colours  so  lovely  as  to 
almost  hurt  you — and  sniffed  the  fragrant  air.  .  .  . 
All  this  must  be  the  house  of  the  Lord !  Here,  surely 
goodness  and  mercy  would  follow  her  all  the  days  of 
her  life. 

Thus,  slowly,  the  marvellous  new  feeling  stole  back 
and  took  possession  of  her.  She  could  no  longer  bear 


12  Missy 

just  sitting  there  quiet,  just  feeling.  She  craved  some 
sort  of  expression.  So  she  rose  and  moved  slowly 
over  the  slick  green  grass,  pausing  by  the  blazing 
nasturtium  bed  to  pick  a  few  vivid  blossoms.  These 
she  pinned  to  her  dress;  then  went  very  leisurely 
on  to  the  house — to  the  parlour — to  the  piano — to 
"Asleep  in  Jesus." 

She  played  it  "with  expression."  Her  soul  now 
seemed  to  be  flowing  out  through  her  fingers  and  to 
the  keyboard;  the  music  came  not  from  the  key- 
board, really,  but  from  her  soul.  Rapture! 

But  presently  her  mood  was  rudely  interrupted 
by  mother's  voice  at  the  door. 

"Missy,  Aunt  Nettie's  lying  down  with  a  head- 
ache.   I'm  afraid  the  piano  disturbs  her." 
"All  right,  mother." 

Lingeringly  Missy  closed  the  hymnal.  She  couldn't 
forbear  a  little  sigh.  Perhaps  mother  noted  the 
.sigh.  Anyway,  she  came  close  and  said: 

"I'm  sorry,  dear.  I  think  it's  nice  the  way  you've 
learned  to  play  hymns." 

Missy  glanced  up;  and  for  a  moment  forgetting 
that  grown-ups  don't  always  understand,  she  breath- 
ed: 

"Oh,  mother,  it's  heavenly!  You  can't  imag- 
ine—" 

She  remembered  just  in  time,  and  stopped  short. 
But  mother  didn't  embarrass  her  by  asking  her 
to  explain  something  that  couldn't  be  explained  in 
words.  She  only  laid  her  hand,  for  a  second,  on  the 
sleek  brown  head. 


The  Flame  Divine  13 

The  marvellous  feeling  endured  through  the  after- 
noon, and  through  supper,  and  through  the  evening 
— clear  up  to  the  time  Missy  undressed  and  said  her 
prayers.  Some  special  sweetness  seemed  to  have 
crept  into  saying  prayers;  our  Lord  Jesus  seemed 
very  personal  and  very  close  as  she  whispered  to 
Him  a  postlude: 

"I  will  fear  no  evil,  for  Thy  rod  and  Thy  staff 
they  comfort  me.  Surely  goodness  and  mercy  shall 
follow  me  all  the  days  of  my  life,  and  I'll  dwell  in 
Thy  house  forever,  O  Lord — Amen." 

For  a  time  she  lay  open-eyed  in  her  little  white 
bed.  A  flood  of  moonlight  came  through  the  win- 
dow to  her  pillow.  She  felt  that  it  was  a  shining 
benediction  from  our  Lord  Himself.  And  indeed  it 
may  have  been.  Gradually  her  eyes  closed.  She: 
smiled  as  she  slept. 

The  grace  of  God  continued  to  be  there  when  she 
awoke.  It  seemed  an  unusual  morning.  The  sun 
was  brighter  than  on  ordinary  mornings;  the  birds 
outside  were  twittering  more  loudly;  even  the  lawn- 
mower  which  black  Jeff  was  already  rolling  over  the 
grass  had  assumed  a  peculiarly  agreeable  clatter. 
And  though,  at  breakfast,  father  grumbled  at  his 
eggs  being  overdone,  and  though  mother  complained 
that  the  laundress  hadn't  come,  and  though  Aunt 
Nettie's  head  was  still  aching,  all  these  things,  some- 
how, seemed  trivial  and  of  no  importance. 

Missy  could  scarcely  wait  to  get  her  dusting  and 
other  little  "chores"  done,  so  that  she  might  go  to 
the  piano. 


14  Missy 

However,  she  hadn't  got  half-way  through  "One 
Sweetly  Solemn  Thought"  before  her  mother  ap- 
peared. 

"Missy!  what  in  the  world  do  you  mean?  I've 
told  you  often  enough  you  must  finish  your  practis- 
ing before  strumming  at  other  things." 

Strumming! 

But  Missy  said  nothing  in  defence.  She  only 
hung  her  head.  Her  mother  went  on: 

"Now,  I  don't  want  to  speak  to  you  again  about 
this.  Get  right  to  your  exercises — I  hope  I  won't 
have  to  hide  that  hymn-book!" 

Mother's  voice  was  stern.  The  laundress's  defec- 
tion and  other  domestic  worries  may  have  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  it.  But  Missy  couldn't  consider 
that;  she  was  too  crushed.  In  stricken  silence  she 
attacked  the  "exercises." 

Not  once  during  that  day  had  she  a  chance  to  let 
out,  through  music,  any  of  her  surcharged  devotion- 
alism.  Mother  kept  piling  on  her  one  errand  after 
another.  Mother  was  in  an  unwonted  flurry;  for  the 
next  day  was  the  one  she  and  Aunt  Nettie  were 
going  to  Junction  City  and  there  were,  as  she  put  it, 
"a  hundred  and  one  things  to  do." 

Through  all  those  tribulations  Missy  reminded 
herself  of  "Thy  rod  and  Thy  staff."  She  didn't  yet 
know  just  what  these  aids  to  comfort  were;  but  the 
Psalmist  had  said  of  them,  "they  shall  comfort  me." 
And,  somehow,  she  did  find  comfort.  That  is  what 
Faith  does. 

And  that  night,  after  she  had  said  her  prayers 


The  Flame  Divine  15 

and  got  into  bed,  once  more  the  grace  of  God  rode 
in  on  the  moonlight  to  rest  upon  her  pillow. 

But  the  next  afternoon,  when  she  had  to  kiss 
mother  good-bye,  a  great  tide  of  loneliness  rushed 
over  Missy,  and  all  but  engulfed  her.  She  had  al- 
ways known  she  loved  mother  tremendously,  but  till 
that  moment  she  had  forgotten  how  very  much.  She 
had  to  concentrate  hard  upon  "Thy  rod  and  Thy 
staff"  before  she  was  able  to  blink  back  her  tears. 
And  mother,  noticing  the  act,  commented  on  her  lit- 
tle daughter's  bravery,  and  blinked  back  some  tears 
of  her  own. 

In  the  excitement  of  packing  up  to  go  to  grand- 
ma's house,  Missy  to  a  degree  forgot  her  grief.  She 
loved  to  go  to  grandma's  house.  She  liked  every- 
thing about  that  house:  the  tall  lilac  hedge  that 
separated  the  yard  from  the  Curriers'  yard  next  door; 
the  orchard  out  in  back  where  grew  the  apples  which 
sometimes  gave  her  an  "upset";  the  garden  where 
grandpa  spent  hours  and  hours  "cultivating"  his 
vegetables;  and  grandma's  own  particular  garden, 
which  was  given  over  to  tall  gaudy  hollyhocks,  and 
prim  rows  of  verbena,  snap-dragon,  phlox,  spicy 
pinks,  heliotrope,  and  other  flowers  such  as  all  grand- 
mothers ought  to  have. 

And  she  liked  the  house  itself,  with  its  many  un- 
usual and  delightful  appurtenances:  no  piano — an 
organ  in  the  parlour,  the  treadles  of  which  you  must 
remember  to  keep  pumping,  or  the  music  would 
wheeze  and  stop;  the  "what-not"  in  the  corner,  its 
shelves  filled  with  fascinating  curios — shells  of  all 


1 6  Missy 

kinds,  especially  a  big  conch  shell  which,  held  close 
to  the  ear,  still  sang  a  song  of  the  sea;  the  marble- 
topped  centre-table,  and  on  it  the  interesting  "al- 
bum" of  family  photographs,  and  the  mysterious 
contrivance  which  made  so  lifelike  the  double  "views  " 
you  placed  in  the  holder;  and  the  lamp  with  its  shade 
dripping  crystal  bangles,  like  huge  raindrops  off  an 
umbrella;  and  the  crocheted  "tidies"  on  all  the  rock- 
ing-chairs, and  the  carpet-covered  footstools  sitting 
demurely  round  on  the  floor,  and  the  fringed  lambre- 
quin on  the  mantel,  and  the  enormous  fan  of  pea- 
cock feathers  spreading  out  on  the  wall — oh,  yes, 
grandma's  was  a  fascinating  place! 

Then  besides,  of  course,  she  adored  grandpa  and 
grandma.  They  were  charming  and  unlike  other 
people,  and  very,  very  good.  Grandpa  was  slow- 
moving,  and  tall  and  broad — even  taller  and  broad- 
er than  father;  and  he  must  be  terribly  wise  because 
he  was  Justice-of-the-Peace,  and  because  he  didn't 
talk  much.  Other  children  thought  him  a  person  to 
be  feared  somewhat,  but  Missy  liked  to  tuck  her 
hand  in  his  enormous  one  and  talk  to  him  about 
strange,  mysterious  things. 

Grandma  wasn't  nearly  so  big — indeed  she  wasn't 
much  taller  than  Missy  herself;  and  she  was  proud 
of  her  activity — her  "spryness,"  she  called  it.  She 
boasted  of  her  ability  to  stoop  over  and,  without 
bending  her  knees,  to  lay  both  palms  flat  on  the 
floor.  Even  Missy's  mother  couldn't  do  that,  and 
sometimes  she  seemed  to  grow  a  little  tired  of  being 
reminded  of  it.  Grandma  liked  to  talk  as  much  as 


The  Flame  Divine  17 

grandpa  liked  to  keep  silent;  and  always,  to  the  run- 
ning accompaniment  of  her  tongue,  she  kept  her 
hands  busied,  whether  "puttering  about"  in  her 
house  or  flower-garden,  or  crocheting  "tidies,"  or 
knitting  little  mittens,  or  creating  the  multi-coloured 
paper-flowers  which  helped  make  her  house  so  allur- 
ing. 

That  night  for  supper  they  had  beefsteak  and  hot 
biscuits  and  custard  pie;  and  grandma  let  her  eat 
these  delicacies  which  were  forbidden  at  home.  She 
even  let  her  drink  coffee!  Not  that  Missy  cared  es- 
pecially for  coffee — it  had  a  bitter  taste;  but  drink- 
ing it  made  her  feel  grown-up.  She  always  felt  more 
grown-up  at  grandma's  than  at  home.  She  was 
"company,"  and  they  showed  her  a  consideration 
one  never  receives  at  home. 

After  supper  Cousin  Pete  went  out  somewhere, 
and  the  other  three  had  a  long,  pleasant  evening. 
Another  agreeable  feature  about  staying  at  grand- 
ma's was  that  they  didn't  make  such  a  point  of  her 
going  to  bed  early.  The  three  of  them  sat  out  on 
the  porch  till  the  night  came  stealing  up;  it  covered 
the  street  and  the  yard  with  darkness,  crawled  into 
the  tree  tops  and  the  rose-bushes  and  the  lilac-hedge. 
It  hid  all  the  familiar  objects  of  daytime,  except  the 
street-lamp  at  the  corner  and  certain  windows  of  the 
neighbours'  houses,  which  now  showed  square  and 
yellow.  Of  the  people  on  the  porch  next  door,  and 
of  those  passing  in  the  street,  only  the  voices  re- 
mained; and,  sometimes,  a  glowing  point  of  red 
which  was  a  cigar. 


1 8  Missy 

Presently  the  moon  crept  up  from  behind  the 
Jones's  house,  peeping  stealthily,  as  if  to  make  sure 
that  all  was  right  in  Cherryvale.  And  then  every- 
thing became  visible  again,  but  in  a  magically  beau- 
tiful way;  it  was  now  like  a  picture  from  a  fairy-tale. 
Indeed,  this  was  the  hour  when  your  belief  in  fairies 
was  most  apt  to  return  to  you. 

The  locusts  began  to  sing.  They  sang  loudly. 
And  grandma  kept  up  her  chatter.  But  within 
Missy  everything  seemed  to  become  very  quiet. 
Suddenly  she  felt  sad,  a  peculiar,  serene  kind  of  sad- 
ness. It  grew  from  the  inside  out — now  and  then 
almost  escaping  in  a  sigh.  Because  it  couldn't  quite 
escape,  it  hurt;  she  envied  the  locusts  who  were  let- 
ting their  sadness  escape  in  that  reiterant,  tranquil 
song. 

She  was  glad  when,  at  last,  grandpa  said: 

"How'd  you  like  to  go  in  and  play  me  a  tune, 
Missy?" 

"Oh,  I'd  love  to,  grandpa!"  Missy  jumped  up 
eagerly. 

So  grandpa  lighted  the  parlour  lamp,  whose  crystal 
bangles  now  looked  like  enormous  diamonds;  and  a 
delicious  time  commenced.  Grandpa  got  out  his 
cloth-covered  hymnal,  and  she  played  again  those 
hymns  which  mingle  so  inexplicably  with  the  feel- 
ings inside  you.  Not  even  her  difficulties  with  the 
organ — such  as  forgetting  occasionally  to  treadle,  or 
having  the  keys  pop  up  soundlessly  from  under  her 
fingers — could  mar  that  feeling.  Especially  when 
grandpa  added  his  bass  to  the  music,  a  deep  bass  so 


The  Flame  Divine  19 

impressive  as  to  make  it  improper  to  question  its 
harmony,  even  in  your  own  mind. 

Grandma  had  come  in  and  seated  herself  in  her 
little  willow  rocker;  she  was  rocking  in  time  to  the 
music,  her  eyes  closed,  and  saying  nothing — just  lis- 
tening to  the  two  of  them.  And,  playing  those 
hymns,  with  grandpa  singing  and  grandma  listen- 
ing, the  new  religious  feeling  grew  and  grew  and 
grew  in  Missy  till  it  seemed  to  flow  out  of  her  and 
fill  the  room.  It  flowed  on  out  and  filled  the  yard, 
the  town,  the  world;  and  upward,  upward,  upward — 
she  was  one  with  the  sky  and  moon  and  stars.  .  .  . 

At  last,  in  a  little  lull,  grandpa  said: 

"Now,  Missy,  my  song — you  know." 

Missy  knew  very  well  what  grandpa's  favourite 
was;  it  was  one  of  the  first  pieces  she  had  learned  by 
heart.  So  she  played  for  him  "Silver  Threads  among 
the  Gold." 

"Thanks,  baby,"  said  grandpa  when  she  had  fin- 
ished. There  was  a  suspicious  brightness  in  his  eyes. 
And  a  suspicious  brightness  in  grandma's,  too.  So, 
though  she  wasn't  unhappy  at  all,  she  felt  her  own 
eyes  grow  moist.  Grandpa  and  grandma  weren't 
really  unhappy,  either.  Why,  when  people  are  not 
really  unhappy  at  all,  do  their  eyes  fill  just  of  them- 
selves ? 

And  now  was  the  moment  of  the  great  surprise  at 
hand.  Missy  could  scarcely  wait.  It  must  be  ad- 
mitted that,  during  the  interminable  time  that  grand- 
pa was  reading  his  chapter — it  was  even  a  longer 
chapter  than  usual  to-night — and  while  grandma 


2o  Missy 

was  reading  her  shorter  one,  Missy  was  not  attend- 
ing. She  was  repeating  to  herself  the  Twenty-third 
Psalm.  And  even  when  they  all  knelt,  grandpa  be- 
side the  big  Morris  chair  and  grandma  beside  the  lit- 
tle willow  rocker  and  Missy  beside  the  "patent  rock- 
er" with  the  prettiest  crocheted  tidy — her  thoughts 
were  still  in  a  divine  channel  exclusively  her  own. 

But  now,  at  last,  came  the  time  for  that  channel 
to  be  widened;  she  closed  her  eyes  tighter,  clasped 
her  hands  together,  and  began: 

"  The  Lord  is  my  shepherd;  I  shall  not  want. 
He  maketh  me  to  lie  down  in  green  pastures;  he  leadeth  me  beside 
the  still  waters.   .    .   ." 

How  beautiful  it  was!  Unconsciously  her  voice 
lifted — quavered — lowered — lifted  again,  with  "ex- 
pression/* And  she  had  the  oddest  complex  sensa- 
tion; she  could,  through  her  tightly  closed  eyes,  vi- 
sion herself  kneeling  there;  while,  at  the  same  time, 
she  could  feel  her  spirit  floating  away,  mingling  with 
the  air,  melting  into  the  night,  fusing  with  all  the 
divine  mystery  of  heaven  and  earth.  And  her  soul 
yearned  for  more  mystery,  for  more  divinity,  with 
an  inexpressible  yearning. 

Yet  all  the  time  she  was  conscious  of  the  dra- 
matic figure  she  made,  and  of  how  pleased  and  im- 
pressed her  audience  must  be;  in  fact,  as  her  voice 
"tremuloed"  on  that  last  sublime  "Surely  goodness 
and  mercy  shall  follow  me  all  the  days  of  my  life, 
and  I  will  dwell  in  the  house  of  the  Lord  forever,'* 
she  unclosed  one  eye  to  note  the  effect. 


The  Flame  Divine  21 

Both  the  grey  heads  remained  prayerfully  bent; 
but  at  her  "Amen"  both  of  them  lifted.  And  oh! 
what  a  reward  was  the  expression  in  those  two  pairs 
of  eyes ! 

Grandma  came  swiftly  to  her  and  kissed  her,  and 
exclaimed: 

"Why,  however  did  you  learn  all  that  long  Psalm, 
dear?  And  you  recited  it  so  beautifully,  too! — Not 
a  single  mistake!  I  never  was  prouder  in  my  life!" 

Grandpa  didn't  kiss  her,  but  he  kept  saying  over 
and  over: 

"Just  think  of  that  baoy! — the  dear  little 
baby." 

And  Missy,  despite  her  spiritual  exaltation,  couldn't 
help  feeling  tremendously  pleased. 

"It  was  a  surprise — I  thought  you'd  be  surprised," 
she  remarked  with  satisfaction. 

Grandma  excitedly  began  to  ask  all  kinds  of  ques- 
tions as  to  how  Missy  came  to  pick  out  that  particu- 
lar Psalm,  and  what  difficulties  she  experienced  in 
learning  it  all;  but  it  was  grandpa  who,  characteris- 
tically, enquired: 

"And  what  does  it  mean  to  you,  Missy?" 

"Mean — ?"  she  repeated. 

"Yes.  For  instance,  what  does  that  last  verse 
mean  ? " 

"'Surely  goodness  and  mercy  shall  follow  me  all 
the  days  of  my  life—?'  That—  ?" 

"Yes,  baby." 

"Why,  I  think  I  see  myself  walking  through  some 
big,  thick  woods.  It's  springtime,  and  the  trees  are 


22  Missy 

all  green,  and  the  grass  slick  and  soft.  And  birds 
are  singing,  and  the  wind's  singing  in  the  leaves,  too. 
And  the  sun's  shining,  and  all  the  clouds  have  silver 
edges." 

She  paused. 

"Yes,  dear,"  said  grandpa. 

"That's  the  house  of  the  Lord,"  she  explained. 

"Yes,  dear,"  said  grandpa  again.    "What  else?" 

"Well,  I'm  skipping  and  jumping  along,  for  I'm 
happy  to  be  in  the  house  of  the  Lord.  And  there 
are  three  little  fairies,  all  dressed  in  silver  and  gold, 
and  with  paper-flowers  in  their  hair,  and  long  dia- 
mond bangles  hanging  like  fringe  on  their  skirts. 
They're  following  me,  and  they're  skipping  and  jump- 
ing, too.  They're  the  three  fairies  in  the  verse." 

"The  three  fairies?"    Grandpa  seemed  puzzled. 

"Yes.  It  says  *  Surely  goodness  and  mercy,'  you 
know." 

"But  that  makes  only  two,  doesn't  it?"  said  grand- 
pa, still  puzzled. 

Missy  laughed  at  his  stupidity. 

"Why,  no! — Three!"  She  counted  them  off  on 
her  fingers:  "Surely — and  Goodness — and  Mercy. 
Don't  you  see?" 

"Oh,  yes,  dear — I  see  now,"  said  grandpa,  very 
slowly.  "I  wasn't  counting  Surely." 

Just  then  came  a  chuckle  from  the  doorway.  Mis- 
sy hadn't  seen  Pete  enter,  else  she  would  have  been 
less  free  in  revealing  her  real  thoughts.  What  had 
he  overheard? 

Still  laughing,  Pete  advanced  into  the  room. 


The  Flame  Divine  23 

"So  there's  a  fairy  named  'Surely,'  is  there? 
What's  the  colour  of  her  eyes,  Missy?" 

Missy  shrank  a  little  closer  into  the  haven  of  grand- 
pa's knees.  And  grandpa,  in  the  severe  voice  that 
made  the  other  children  stand  in  awe  of  him,  said: 

"That  will  do,  Peter!" 

But  Peter,  unawed,  went  on: 

"I  know,  grandpa — but  she's  such  a  funny  little 
dingbat!  And  now,  that  she's  turned  pious — " 

Grandpa  interrupted  him  with  a  gesture  of  the 
hand. 

"I  said  that'd  do,  Peter.  If  you'd  find  some  time 
to  attend  prayers  instead  of  cavorting  round  over 
town,  it  wouldn't  hurt  you  any." 

Then  grandma,  who,  though  she  was  fond  of  Mis- 
sy, was  fond  of  Pete  also,  joined  in  defensively: 

"Pete  hasn't  been  cavorting  round  over  town, 
grandpa — he's  just  been  over  to  the  Curriers'." 

At  that  Missy  turned  interested  eyes  upon  her  big 
cousin.  He'd  been  calling  on  Polly  Currier  again! 
Polly  Currier  was  one  of  the  prettiest  big  girls  in 
Cherryvale.  Missy  gazed  at  Pete,  so  handsome  in 
his  stylish-looking  blue  serge  coat  and  sharply 
creased  white  ducks,  debonairly  twirling  the  bamboo 
walking-stick  which  the  Cherryvale  boys,  half-en- 
viously,  twitted  him  about,  and  felt  the  wings  of 
Romance  whirring  in  the  already  complicated  air. 
For  this  additional  element  of  interest  he  furnished, 
she  could  almost  forgive  him  his  scoffing  attitude 
toward  her  own  most  serious  affairs. 

But  Pete,  fortunately  for  his  complacency,  didn't 


24  Missy 

suspect  the  reason  for  her  concentrated  though  friend- 
ly gaze. 

All  in  all,  Missy  felt  quite  at  peace  when  she  went 
upstairs.  Grandma  tucked  her  into  bed — the  big, 
extraordinarily  soft  feather-bed  which  was  one  of 
the  outstanding  features  of  grandma's  fascinating 
house. 

And  there — wonder  of  wonders! — the  moon, 
through  grandma's  window,  found  her  out  just  as 
readily  as  though  she'd  been  in  her  own  little  bed  at 
home.  Again  it  carried  in  the  grace  of  God,  to  rest 
through  the  night  on  her  pillow. 

Next  day  was  an  extremely  happy  day.  She  had 
coffee  for  breakfast,  and  was  permitted  by  Alma,  the 
hired  girl,  to  dry  all  the  cups  and  saucers.  Then  she 
dusted  the  parlour,  including  all  the  bric-a-brac,  which 
made  dusting  here  an  engrossing  occupation.  Later 
she  helped  grandpa  hoe  the  cabbages,  and  afterward 
"puttered  around"  with  grandma  in  the  flower-gar- 
den. Then  she  and  grandma  listened,  very  quietly, 
through  a  crack  in  the  nearly-closed  door  while  grand- 
pa conducted  a  hearing  in  the  parlour.  To  tell  the 
truth,  Missy  wasn't  greatly  interested  in  whether 
Mrs.  Brenning's  chickens  had  scratched  up  Mrs. 
Jones's  tomato-vines,  but  she  pretended  to  be  inter- 
ested because  grandma  was. 

And  then,  after  the  hearing  was  over,  and  the 
Justice-of-the-Peace  had  become  just  grandpa  again, 
Missy  went  into  the  parlour  and  played  hymns.  Then 
came  dinner,  a  splendid  and  heavy  repast  which  con- 
strained her  to  take  a  nap.  After  the  nap  she  felt 


The  Flame  Divine  25 

better,  and  sat  out  on  the  front  porch  to  learn  cro- 
cheting from  grandma. 

For  a  while  Pete  sat  with  them,  and  Polly  Currier 
from  next  door  came  over,  too.  She  looked  awfully 
pretty  all  in  white — white  shirtwaist  and  white  duck 
skirt  and  white  canvas  oxfords.  Presently  Pete  sug- 
gested that  Polly  go  into  the  parlour  with  him  to  look 
at  some  college  snapshots.  Missy  wondered  why  he 
didn't  bring  them  out  to  the  porch  where  it  was 
cooler,  but  she  was  too  polite  to  ask. 

They  stayed  in  there  a  long  time — what  were  they 
doing?  For  long  spaces  she  couldn't  even  hear  their 
voices.  Grandma  chattered  away  with  her  usual 
vivacity;  presently  she  suggested  that  they  leave  off 
crocheting  and  work  on  paper-flowers  a  while.  What 
a  delight!  Missy  was  just  learning  the  intricacies  of 
peonies,  and  adored  to  squeeze  the  rosy  tissue-paper 
over  the  head  of  a  hat-pin  and  observe  the  amazing 
result. 

"Run  up  to  my  room,  dear,'*  said  grandma. 
"You'll  find  the  box  on  the  closet  shelf." 

Missy  knew  the  "paper-flower  box."  It  was  a  big 
hat-box,  appropriately  covered  with  pink-posied  pa- 
per— a  quaintly  beautiful  box. 

In  the  house,  passing  the  parlour  door,  she  tip-toed, 
scarcely  knowing  why.  There  was  now  utter  silence 
in  the  parlour — why  were  they  so  still  ?  Perhaps  they 
had  gone  out  somewhere.  Without  any  definite 
plan,  but  still  tip-toeing  in  the  manner  she  and 
grandma  had  approached  to  overhear  the  law-suit, 
she  moved  toward  the  partly-closed  door.  Through 


26  Missy 

the  crevice  they  were  out  of  vision,  but  she  could 
hear  a  subdued  murmur — they  were  in  there  after 
all!  Missy,  too  interested  to  be  really  conscious  of 
her  act,  strained  her  ears. 

Polly  Currier  murmured: 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean  ? — what  are  you  doing  ? " 

Pete  murmured: 

"What  a  question! — I'm  trying  to  kiss  you." 

"Let  me  go! — you're  mussing  my  dress!  You  cant 
kiss  me — let  me  go!" 

Pete  murmured: 

"Not  till  you  let  me  kiss  you!" 

Polly  Currier  murmured: 

"I  suppose  that's  the  way  you  talk  to  all  the 
girls! — I  know  you  college  men!" 

Pete  murmured,  a  whole  world  of  reproach  in  one 
word: 

"Polly." 

They  became  silent — a  long  silence.  Missy  stood 
petrified  behind  the  door;  her  breathing  ceased  but 
her  heart  beat  quickly.  Here  was  Romance — not  the 
made-up  kind  of  Romance  you  surreptitiously  read 
in  mother's  magazines,  but  real  Romance!  And  she 
— Missy — knew  them  both!  And  they  were  just  the 
other  side  of  the  door! 

Too  thrilled  to  reflect  upon  the  nature  of  her  deed, 
scarcely  conscious  of  herself  as  a  being  at  all,  Missy 
craned  her  neck  and  peered  around  the  door.  They 
were  sitting  close  together  on  the  divan.  Pete's  arm 
was  about  Polly  Currier's  shoulder.  And  he  was 
kissing  her!  Curious,  that!  Hadn't  she  just  heard 


The  Flame  Divine  27 

Polly  tell  him  that  he  couldn't?  .  .  .  Oh,  beauti- 
ful! 

She  started  noiselessly  to  withdraw,  but  her  foot 
struck  the  conch  shell  which  served  as  a  door-stop. 
At  the  noise  two  startled  pairs  of  eyes  were  upon  her 
immediately;  and  Pete,  leaping  up,  advanced  upon 
her  with  a  fierce  whisper: 

"You  little  spy-eye! — What 're  you  up  to?  You 
little  spy-eye!" 

A  swift  wave  of  shame  engulfed  Missy. 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry!"  she  cried  in  a  stricken  voice.  "I 
didn't  mean  to,  Pete — I — 

He  interrupted  her,  still  in  that  fierce  whisper: 

"Stop  yelling,  can't  you!  No,  I  suppose  you  'didn't 
me'an  to' — Right  behind  the  door!"  His  eyes 
withered  her. 

"Truly,  I  didn't,  Pete."  Her  own  voice,  now, 
had  sunk  to  a  whisper.  "Cross  my  heart  I  didn't!" 

But  he  still  glared. 

"You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself — always 
sneaking  round !  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  your- 
self!" 

"Oh,  I  am,  Pete,"  she  quavered,  though,  in  fact, 
she  wasn't  sure  in  just  what  lay  the  shamefulness  of 
her  deed;  till  he'd  spoken  she  had  felt  nothing  but 
Romance  in  the  air. 

"Well,  you  ought  to  be,"  Pete  reiterated.  He 
hesitated  a  second,  then  went  on: 

"You  aren't  going  to  blab  it  all  around,  are  you?" 

"Oh,  no!"  breathed  Missy,  horrified  at  such  a 
suggestion. 


28  Missy 

"Well,  see  that  you  don't!  I'll  give  you  some 
candy  to-morrow." 

"Yes — candy,"  came  Polly's  voice  faintly  from 
the  divan. 

Then,  as  the  subject  seemed  to  be  exhausted, 
Missy  crept  away,  permeated  with  the  sense  of  her 
sin. 

It  was  horrible!  To  have  sinned  just  when  she'd 
found  the  wonderful  new  feeling.  Just  when  she'd 
resolved  to  be  good  always,  that  she  might  dwell  in 
the  house  of  the  Lord  forever.  She  hadn't  intended 
to  sin;  but  she  must  have  been  unusually  iniquitous. 
Pete's  face  had  told  her  that.  It  was  particularly 
horrible  because  sin  had  stolen  upon  her  so  sudden- 
ly. Does  sin  always  take  you  unawares,  that  way? 
A  new  and  black  fear  settled  heavily  over  her. 

When  she  finally  returned  to  the  porch  with  the 
paper-flowers  box,  she  was  embarrassed  by  grand- 
ma's asking  what  had  kept  her  so  long.  It  would 
have  been  easy  to  make  up  an  excuse,  but  this  new 
sense  of  sin  restrained  her  from  lying.  So  she  mum- 
bled unintelligibly,  till  grandma  interrupted: 

"Do  you  feel  sick,  Missy?"  she  asked  anxiously. 

"No,  ma'am." 

"Are  you  sure?  You  ate  so  much  at  dinner.  May- 
be you  didn't  take  a  long  enough  nap." 

"I'm  not  sleepy,  grandma." 

But  grandma  insisted  on  feeling  her  forehead — 
her  hands.  They  were  hot. 

"I  think  I'd  better  put  you  to  bed  for  a  little 
while,"  said  grandma.  "You're  feverish.  And  if 


The  Flame  Divine  29 

you're  not  better  by  night,  you  mustn't  go  to  the 
meeting." 

Missy's  heart  sank,  weighted  with  a  new  fear.  It 
would  be  an  unbearable  calamity  to  miss  going  to 
the  meeting.  For,  that  night,  a  series  of  "revivals" 
were  to  start  at  the  Methodist  Church;  and,  though 
father  was  a  Presbyterian  (to  oblige  mother),  grand- 
pa and  grandma  were  Methodists  and  would  go  every 
night;  and  so  long  as  mother  was  away,  she  could  go. 
to  meeting  with  them.  In  the  fervour  of  the  new  re- 
ligious feeling  she  craved  sanctified  surroundings. 
So,  though  she  didn't  feel  at  all  sick  and  though  she 
wanted  desperately  to  make  paper-flowers,  she  do- 
cilely let  herself  be  put  to  bed.  Anyway,  perhaps  it 
was  just  a  penance  sent  to  her  by  our  Lord,  to  make 
atonement  for  her  sin. 

By  supper-time  grandma  agreed  that  she  seemed 
well  enough  to  go.  Throughout  the  meal  Pete,  who 
was  wearing  an  aloof  and  serious  manner,  refrained 
from  looking  at  her,  and  she  strived  to  keep  her  own 
anxious  gaze  away  from  him.  He  wasn't  going  to 
the  meeting  with  the  other  three. 

Just  as  the  lingering  June  twilight  was  beginning 
to  darken — the  most  peaceful  hour  of  the  day — 
Missy  walked  off  sedately  between  her  grandparents. 
She  was  wearing  her  white  "best  dress."  It  seemed 
appropriate  that  your  best  clothes  should  be  always 
involved  in  the  matter  of  church  going;  that  the 
spiritual  beatification  within  should  be  reflected  by 
the  garments  without. 

The  Methodist  church  in  Cherryvale  prided  itself 


30  Missy 

that  it  was  not  "new-fangled."  It  was  not  nearly 
so  pretentious  in  appearance  as  was  the  Presbyterian 
church.  Missy,  in  her  heart,  preferred  stained-glass 
windows  and  their  glorious  reflections,  as  an  asset  to 
religion;  but  at  night  services  you  were  not  apt  to 
note  that  deficiency. 

She  sat  well  up  front  with  her  grandparents,  as 
befitted  their  position  as  pillars  of  the  church,  and 
from  this  vantage  had  a  good  view  of  the  proceed- 
ings. She  could  see  every  one  in  the  choir,  seated 
up  there  behind  the  organ  on  the  side  platform. 
Polly  Currier  was  in  the  choir;  she  wasn't  a  Metho- 
dist, but  she  had  a  flute-like  soprano  voice,  and  the 
Methodists — whom  all  the  town  knew  had  "poor 
singing" — had  overstepped  the  boundaries  of  sec- 
tarianism for  this  revival.  Polly  looked  like  an  an- 
gel in  pink  lawn  and  rose-wreathed  leghorn  hat;  she 
couldn't  know  that  Missy  gazed  upon  her  with  se- 
cret adoration  as  a  creature  of  Romance — one  who 
had  been  kissed!  Missy  continued  to  gaze  at  Polly 
during  the  preliminary  songs — tunes  rather  disap- 
pointing, not  so  beautiful  as  Missy's  own  favourite 
hymns — till  the  preacher  appeared. 

The  Reverend  Poole — "Brother"  Poole  as  grand- 
pa called  him,  though  he  wasn't  a  relation — was  a 
very  tall,  thin  man  with  a  blonde,  rather  vacuous 
face;  but  at  exhortation  and  prayer  he  "had  the 
gift."  For  so  good  a  man,  he  had  a  remarkably  poor 
opinion  of  the  virtues  of  his  fellow-men.  Missy 
couldn't  understand  half  his  fiery  eloquence;  but  she 
felt  his  inspiration;  and  she  gathered  that  most  of 


The  Flame  Divine  3 1 

the  congregation  must  be  sinners.  Knowing  herself 
to  be  a  sinner,  she  wasn't  so  much  surprised  at  that. 

Finally  Brother  Poole,  with  quavering  voice,  urged 
all  sinners  to  come  forward  and  kneel  at  the  feet  of 
Jesus,  and  pray  to  be  "washed  in  the  blood  of  the 
lamb."  Thus  would  their  sins  be  forgiven  them, 
and  their  souls  be  born  anew.  Missy's  soul  quiv- 
ered and  stretched  up  to  be  born  anew.  So,  with 
several  other  sinners — including  grandpa  and  grand- 
ma whom  she  had  never  before  suspected  of  sin — 
she  unhesitatingly  walked  forward.  She  invoked  the 
grace  of  God;  her  head,  her  body,  her  feet  seemed 
very  light  and  remote  as  she  walked;  she  seemed, 
rather,  to  float;  her  feet  scarcely  touched  the  red- 
ingrain  aisle  "runner" — she  was  nearly  all  spirit. 
She  knelt  before  the  altar  between  grandpa  and 
grandma,  one  hand  tight-clasped  in  grandpa's. 

Despite  her  exaltation,  she  was  conscious  of  ma- 
terial things.  For  instance  she  noted  that  Mrs. 
Brenning  was  on  the  other  side  of  grandma,  and 
wondered  whether  she  were  atoning  for  the  sins  of 
her  chickens  against  Mrs.  Jones's  tomato-vines;  she 
noticed,  too,  that  Mrs.  Brenning's  hat  had  become 
askew,  which  gave  her  a  queer,  unsuitable,  rakish 
look.  Yet  Missy  didn't  feel  like  laughing.  She  felt 
like  closing  her  eyes  and  waiting  to  be  born  anew. 
But,  before  closing  her  eyes,  she  sent  a  swift  glance 
up  at  the  choir  platform.  Polly  Currier  was  still  up 
there,  looking  very  placid  as  she  sang  with  the  rest 
of  the  choir.  They  were  singing  a  rollicking  tune. 
She  listened — 


32  Missy 

"Pull  for  the  skorf,  sailor!    Pull  for  the  shore! 
Leave  the  poor  old  strangled  wretch,  and  putt  for  the  shore! " 

Who  was  the  old  strangled  wretch?  A  sinner, 
doubtless.  Ah,  the  world  was  full  of  sin.  She 
looked  again  at  Polly.  Polly's  placidity  was  re- 
assuring; evidently  she  was  not  a  sinner.  But  it 
was  time  to  close  her  eyes.  However,  before  doing 
so,  she  sent  a  swift  upward  glance  toward  the 
preacher.  He  had  a  look  on  his  face  as  though 
an  electric  light  had  been  turned  on  just  inside.  He 
was  praying  fervently  for  God's  grace  upon  "these 
Thy  repentant  creatures."  Missy  shut  her  eyes,  re- 
pented violently,  and  awaited  the  miracle.  What 
would  happen?  How  would  it  feel,  when  her  soul 
was  born  anew?  Surely  it  must  be  time.  She  wait- 
ed and  waited,  while  her  limbs  grew  numb  and  her 
soul  continued  to  quiver  and  stretch  up.  But  in 
vain;  she  somehow  didn't  feel  the  grace  of  God  near- 
ly as  much  as  last  Sunday  when  the  Presbyterian 
choir  was  singing  "Asleep  in  Jesus,"  while  the  sun 
shone  divinely  through  the  stained-glass  window. 

She  felt  cheated  and  very  sad  when,  at  last,  the 
preacher  bade  the  repentant  ones  stand  up  again. 
Evidently  she  hadn't  repented  hard  enough.  Very 
soberly  she  walked  back  to  the  pew  and  took  her 
place  between  grandpa  and  grandma.  They  looked 
rather  sober,  too;  she  wondered  if  they,  also,  had 
had  trouble  with  their  souls. 

Then  Brother  Poole  bade  the  repentant  sinners  to 
"stand  up  and  testify."  One  or  two  of  the  older 
sinners,  who  had  repented  before,  rose  first  to  show 


The  Flame  Divine  33 

how  this  was  done.  And  then  some  of  the  younger 
ones,  after  being  urged,  followed  example.  Sobbing, 
they  testified  as  to  their  depth  of  sin  and  their  sense 
of  forgiveness,  while  Brother  Poole  intermittently 
cut  in  with  staccato  exclamations  such  as  "Praise 
the  Lord!"  and  "My  Redeemer  Liveth!" 

Missy  was  eager  to  see  whether  grandpa  and 
grandma  would  stand  up  and  testify.  When  neither 
of  them  did  so,  she  didn't  know  whether  she  was 
more  disappointed  or  relieved.  Perhaps  their  silence 
denoted  that  their  souls  had  been  born  anew  quite 
easily.  Or  again — !  She  sighed;  her  soul,  at  all 
events,  had  proved  a  failure. 

She  was  silent  on  the  way  home.  Grandpa  and 
grandma  held  her  two  hands  clasped  in  theirs  and 
over  her  head  talked  quietly.  She  was  too  dejected 
to  pay  much  attention  to  what  they  were  saying; 
caught  only  scattered,  meaningless  phrases:  "Of 
course  that  kind  of  frenzy  is  sincere  but — "  "Sim- 
ple young  things — "  "No  more  idea  of  sin  or  real 
repentance — " 

But  Missy  was  engrossed  with  her  own  dismal 
thoughts.  The  blood  of  the  Lamb  had  passed  her  by. 

And  that  night,  for  the  first  time  in  three  nights, 
the  grace  of  God  didn't  flow  in  on  the  flood  of  moon- 
light through  her  window.  She  tossed  on  her  un- 
hallowed pillow  in  troubled  dreams.  Once  she  cried 
out  in  sleep,  and  grandma  came  hurrying  in  with  a 
candle.  Grandma  sat  down  beside  her — what  was 
this  she  was  saying  about  "green-apple  pie"?  Missy 
wished  to  ask  her  about  it — green-apple  pie — green- 


34  Missy 

apple  pie —    Before  she  knew  it  she  was  off  to  sleep 
again. 

It  was  the  next  morning  while  she  was  still  lying 
in  bed,  that  Missy  made  the  Great  Resolve.  That 
hour  is  one  when  big  Ideas — all  kinds  of  unusual 
thoughts — are  very  apt  to  come.  When  you're  not 
yet  entirely  awake;  not  taken  up  with  trivial,  every- 
day things.  Your  mind,  then,  has  full  swing. 

Lying  there  in  grandma's  soft  feather  bed,  Missy 
wasn't  yet  distracted  by  daytime  affairs.  She  dream- 
ily regarded  the  patch  of  blue  sky  showing  through 
the  window,  and  bits  of  fleecy  cloud,  and  flying 
specks  of  far-away  birds.  How  wonderful  to  be  a 
bird  and  live  up  in  the  beautiful  sky!  When  she 
died  and  became  an  angel,  she  could  live  up  there! 
But  was  she  sure  she'd  become  an  angel?  That  re- 
flection gradually  brought  her  thoughts  to  the  events 
of  the  preceding  night. 

Though  she  could  recall  those  events  distinctly, 
Missy  now  saw  them  in  a  different  kind  of  way. 
Now  she  was  able  to  look  at  the  evening  as  a  whole, 
with  herself  merely  a  part  of  the  whole.  She  regard- 
ed that  sort  of  detached  object  which  was  herself. 
That  detached  Missy  had  gone  to  the  meeting,  and 
failed  to  find  grace.  Others  had  gone  and  found 
grace.  Even  though  they  had  acted  no  differently 
from  Missy.  Like  her  they  sang  tunes;  listened  to 
the  preacher;  bowed  the  head;  went  forward  and 
knelt  at  the  feet  of  Jesus;  repented;  went  back  to 
the  pews;  stood  up  and  testified — 

Oh! 


The  Flame  Divine  35 

Suddenly  Missy  gave  a  little  sound,  and  stirred. 
She  puckered  her  brows  in  intense  concentration. 
Perhaps — perhaps  that  was  why! 

And  then  she  made  the  Great  Resolve. 

Soon  after  breakfast,  Pete  appeared  with  a  bag  of 
candy. 

"I  don't  deserve  it,"  said  Missy  humbly. 

"You  bet  you  don't!"  acquiesced  Pete. 

So  even  he  recognized  her  state  of  sin !  Her  Great 
Resolve  intensified. 

That  morning,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  at 
grandma's  house,  Missy  shirked  her  "chores."  She 
found  paper  and  pencil,  took  a  small  Holy  Bible, 
and  stole  back  to  the  tool-house  where  grandpa  kept 
his  garden  things  and  grandma  her  washtubs.  For 
that  which  she  now  was  to  do,  Missy  would  have 
preferred  the  more  beautiful  summerhouse  at  home; 
but  grandma  had  no  summerhouse,  and  this  offered 
the  only  sure  seclusion. 

She  stayed  out  there  a  long  time,  seated  on  an  up- 
turned washtub;  read  the  Holy  Bible  for  awhile; 
then  became  absorbed  in  the  ecstasies  of  composi- 
tion. So  engrossed  was  she  that  she  didn't  at  first 
hear  grandma  calling  her. 

Grandma  was  impatiently  waiting  on  the  back 
porch. 

"What  in  the  world  are  you  doing  out  there?" 
she  demanded. 

Loath  to  lie,  now,  Missy  made  a  compromise  with 
her  conscience. 

"I  was  reading  the  Holy  Bible,  grandma." 


36  Missy 

Grandma's  expression  softened;  and  all  she  said 
was: 

"Well,  dinner's  waiting,  now." 

Grandpa  was  staying  down  town  and  Pete  was 
over  at  the  Curriers',  so  there  were  only  grandma 
and  Missy  at  the  table.  Missy  tried  to  attend  to 
grandma's  chatter  and  make  the  right  answers  in 
the  right  places.  But  her  mind  kept  wandering; 
and  once  grandma  caught  her  whispering. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Missy?  What  are 
you  whispering  about?" 

Guiltily  Missy  clapped  her  hand  to  her  mouth. 

"Oh!  was  I  whispering?" 

"Yes." 

"I  guess  it  was  just  a  piece  I'm  learning." 

"What  piece?" 

"I — I — it's  going  to  be  a  surprise." 

"Oh,  another  surprise?  Well,  that'll  be  nice," 
said  grandma. 

Missy  longed  acutely  to  be  alone.  It  was  upset- 
ting to  have  to  carry  on  a  conversation.  That  often 
throws  you  off  of  what's  absorbing  your  thoughts. 

So  she  was  glad  when,  after  dinner,  grandma 
said: 

"I  think  you'd  better  take  a  little  nap,  dear.  You 
don't  seem  quite  like  yourself — perhaps  you'd  best 
not  attempt  the  meeting  to-night." 

That  last  was  a  bomb-shell;  but  Missy  decided 
not  to  worry  about  such  a  possible  catastrophe  till 
the  time  should  come.  She  found  a  chance  to  slip 
out  to  the  tool-house  and  rescue  the  Holy  Bible  and 


The  Flame  Divine  37 

the  sheet  of  paper,  the  latter  now  so  scratched  out 
and  interlined  as  to  be  unintelligible  to  anyone  save 
an  author. 

When  at  last  she  was  alone  in  her  room,  she 
jumped  out  of  bed — religion,  it  seems,  sometimes 
makes  deception  a  necessity. 

For  a  time  she  worked  on  the  paper,  bending  close 
over  it,  cheeks  flushed,  eyes  shining,  whispering  as 
she  scratched. 

At  supper,  Missy  was  glad  to  learn  that  Pete  had 
planned  to  attend  the  meeting  that  evening.  "Re- 
vivals" were  not  exactly  in  Pete's  line;  but  as  long 
as  Polly  Currier  had  to  be  there,  he'd  decided  he 
might  as  well  go  to  see  her  home.  Moreover,  he'd 
persuaded  several  others  of  "the  crowd"  to  go  along 
and  make  a  sort  of  party  of  it. 

And  Missy's  strained  ears  caught  no  ominous  sug- 
gestion as  to  her  own  staying  at  home. 

Later,  walking  sedately  to  the  church  between  her 
grandparents,  Missy  felt  her  heart  beating  so  hard 
she  feared  they  might  hear  it.  Once  inside  the 
church,  she  drew  a  long  breath.  Oh,  if  only  she 
didn't  have  so  long  to  wait!  How  could  she  wait? 

Polly  Currier  was  again  seated  on  the  choir  plat- 
form, to-night  an  angel  in  lavender  mull.  She  had 
a  bunch  of  pansies  at  her  belt — pansies  out  of  grand- 
ma's garden.  Pete  must  have  given  them  to  her! 
She  now  and  then  smiled  back  toward  the  back  pew 
where  Pete  and  "the  crowd"  were  sitting. 

To  Missy's  delight  Polly  sang  a  solo.  It  was  "One 
Sweetly  Solemn  Thought" — oh,  rapture!  Polly's 


38  Missy 

high  soprano  noated  up  clear  and  piercing-sweet.  It 
was  so  beautiful  that  it  hurt.  Missy  shut  her  eyes. 
She  could  almost  see  angels  in  misty  white  and  float- 
ing golden  hair.  Something  quivered  inside  her; 
once  more  on  the  wings  of  music  was  the  religious 
feeling  stealing  back  to  her. 

The  solo  was  finished,  but  Missy  kept  her  eyes 
closed  whenever  she  thought  no  one  was  looking. 
She  was  anxious  to  hold  the  religious  feeling  till  her 
soul  could  be  entirely  born  anew.  And  she  had  quite 
a  long  time  to  wait.  That  made  her  task  difficult 
and  complicated;  for  it's  not  easy  at  the  same  time 
to  retain  an  emotional  state  and  to  rehearse  a  piece 
you're  afraid  of  forgetting. 

But  the  service  gradually  wore  through.  Now 
they  were  at  the  "come  forward  and  sit  at  the  feet 
of  Jesus."  To-night  grandpa  and  grandma  didn't 
do  that;  they  merely  knelt  in  the  pew  with  bowed 
heads.  So  Missy  also  knelt  with  bowed  head.  She 
was  by  this  time  in  a  state  difficult  to  describe;  a 
quivering  jumble  of  excitement,  eagerness,  timidity, 
fear,  hope,  and  exaltation.  .  .  . 

And  now  at  last,  was  come  the  time! 

Brother  Poole,  again  wearing  the  look  on  his  face 
as  of  an  electric  light  turned  on  within,  exhorted  the 
repentant  ones  to  "stand  up  and  testify." 

Missy  couldn't  bear  to  wait  for  someone  else  to 
begin.  She  jumped  hastily  to  her  feet.  Grandma 
tried  to  pull  her  down.  Missy  frowned  slightly — 
why  was  grandma  tugging  at  her  skirt?  Tugging 
away,  she  extended  her  arms  with  palms  flat  together 


The  Flame  Divine  39 

and  thumbs  extended — one  of  Brother  Poole's  most 
effective  gestures — and  began: 

"My  soul  rejoiceth  because  I  have  seen  the  light. 
Yea,  it  burns  in  my  soul  and  my  soul  is  restoreth.  I 
will  fear  no  evil  even  if  it  is  born  again.  Surely 
goodness  and  mercy  shall  follow  me  all  the  days  of 
my  life,  and  I  will  dwell  in  the  house  of  the  Lord 
forever.  I  have  been  a  sinner  but — " 

Why  was  grandma  pulling  at  her  skirt?  Missy 
twitched  away  and,  raising  her  voice  to  a  higher  key, 
went  on: 

"I  said  I've  been  a  sinner,  but  I've  repented  my 
sins  and  want  to  lead  a  blameless  life.  I  repent  my 
sins — O  Lord,  please  forgive  me  for  being  a  spy-eye 
when  Cousin  Pete  kissed  Polly  Currier,  and  guide 
me  to  lead  a  blameless  life.  Amen." 

She  sat  down. 

A  great  and  heavenly  stillness  came  and  wrapped 
itself  about  her,  a  soft  and  velvety  stillness;  to  shut 
out  gasp  or  murmur  or  stifled  titter. 

The  miracle  had  happened!  It  was  as  if  an  inner 
light  had  been  switched  on;  a  warm  white  light  which 
tingled  through  to  every  fibre  of  her  being.  Surely 
this  was  the  flame  divine!  It  was  her  soul  being 
born  anew. 


II 

"  Your  True  Friend,  Melissa  M. " 

TVTISSY  knew,  the  moment  she  opened  her  eyes, 
•*••*•  that  golden  June  morning,  that  it  was  going  to 
be  a  happy  day.  Missy,  with  Poppylinda  purring 
beside  her,  found  this  mysterious,  irradiant  feeling 
flowing  out  of  her  heart  almost  as  tangible  as  a 
third  live  being  in  her  quaint  little  room.  It  seemed 
a  sort  of  left-over,  still  vaguely  attached,  from  the 
wonderful  dream  she  had  just  been  having.  Try- 
ing to  recall  the  dream,  she  shut  her  eyes  again; 
Missy's  one  regret,  in  connection  with  her  magical 
dreams,  was  that  the  sparkling  essence  of  them  was 
apt  to  become  dim  when  she  awoke.  But  now,  when 
she  opened  her  eyes,  the  suffusion  still  lingered. 

For  a  long,  quiet,  blissful  moment,  she  lay  smiling 
at  the  spot  where  the  sunlight,  streaming  level 
through  the  lace-curtained  window,  fell  on  the  rose- 
flowered  chintz  of  the  valances.  Missy  liked  those 
colours  very  much;  then  her  eyes  followed  the  beam 
of  light  to  where  it  spun  a  prism  of  fairy  colours  on 
the  mirror  above  the  high-boy,  and  she  liked  that 
ecstatically.  She  liked,  too,  by  merely  turning  her 
head  on  the  pillow,  to  glimpse,  through  the  parting 
of  the  curtains,  the  ocean  of  blue  sky  with  its  flying 

40 


"Your  True  Friend,  Melissa  M."          41 

cloud  ships,  so  strange;  and  to  hear  the  morning  song 
of  the  birds  and  the  happy  hum  of  insects,  the  music 
seeming  almost  to  filter  through  the  lace  curtains  in 
a  frescoed  pattern  which  glided,  alive,  along  the 
golden  roadway  of  sunshine.  She  even  liked  the 
monotonous  metallic  rattle  which  betold  that  old 
Jeff  was  already  at  work  with  the  lawn-mower. 

All  this  in  a  silent  moment  crammed  to  the  full 
with  vibrant  ecstasy;  then  Missy  remembered,  spe- 
cifically, the  Wedding  drawing  every  day  nearer, 
and  the  new  Pink  Dress,  and  the  glory  to  be  hers 
when  she  should  strew  flowers  from  a  huge  leghorn 
hat,  and  her  rapture  brimmed  over.  Physically  and 
spiritually  unable  to  keep  still  another  second,  she 
suddenly  sat  up. 

"Oh,  Poppylinda!"  she  whispered.  "I'm  so  hap- 
py— so  happy!" 

Everyone  knows — that  is,  everyone  who  knows 
kittens — that  kittens,  like  babies,  listen  with  their 
eyes.  To  Missy's  whispered  confidence,  Poppylinda, 
without  stirring,  opened  her  lids  and  blinked  her 
yellow  eyes. 

"Aren't  you  happy,  too?  Say  you're  happy, 
Poppy,  darling!" 

Poppy  was  stirred  to  such  depths  that  mere  eye- 
blinking  could  not  express  her  emotion.  She  opened 
her  mouth,  so  as  to  expose  completely  her  tiny  red 
tongue,  and  then,  without  lingual  endeavour,  began 
to  hum  a  gentle,  crooning  rumble  down  somewhere 
near  her  stomach.  Yes;  Poppy  was  happy. 
The  spirit  of  thanksgiving  glamorously  enwrapped 


42  Missy 

these  two  all  the  time  Missy  was  dressing.  Like 
the  efficient  big  girl  of  twelve  that  she  was,  Missy 
drew  her  own  bath  and,  later,  braided  her  own  hair 
neatly.  As  she  tied  the  ribbons  on  those  braids,  now 
crossed  in  a  "coronet"  over  her  head,  she  gave  the 
ghost  of  a  sigh.  This  morning  she  didn't  want  to 
wear  her  every-day  bows;  but  dutifully  she  tied  them 
on,  a  big  brown  cabbage  above  each  ear.  When  she 
had  scrambled  into  her  checked  gingham  "sailor 
suit,"  all  spick  and  span,  Missy  stood  eying  herself 
in  the  mirror  for  a  wistful  moment,  wishing  her 
tight  braids  might  metamorphose  into  lovely,  hang- 
ing curls  like  Kitty  Allen's.  They  come  often  to  a 
"strange  child" — these  moments  of  vague  longing 
to  overhear  one's  self  termed  a  "pretty  child" — es- 
pecially on  the  eve  of  an  important  occasion. 

But  thoughts  of  that  important  occasion  speedily 
chased  away  consciousness  of  self.  And  downstairs 
in  the  cheerful  dining  room,  with  the  family  all  gath- 
ered round  the  table,  Missy,  her  cheeks  glowing  pink 
and  her  big  grey  eyes  ashine,  found  it  difficult  to  eat 
her  oatmeal,  for  very  rapture.  In  the  bay  window, 
the  geraniums  on  the  sill  nodded  their  great,  blos- 
somy  heads  at  her  knowingly.  Beyond,  the  big  ma- 
ple was  stirring  its  leaves,  silver  side  up,  like  music 
in  the  breeze.  Away  across  the  yard,  somewhere, 
JefF  was  making  those  busy,  restful  sounds  with  the 
lawn-mower.  These  alluring  things,  and  others 
stretching  out  to  vast  mental  distances,  quite 
deadened,  for  Missy,  the  family's  talk  close  at 
hand. 


"  Your  True  Friend,  Melissa  M."          43 

"When  I  ran  over  to  the  GreenleaPs  to  borrow 
the  sugar,"  Aunt  Nettie  was  saying,  "May  White 
was  there,  and  she  and  Helen  hurried  out  of  the 
dining  room  when  they  saw  me.  I'm  sure  they'd 
been  crying,  and — " 

"S-sh!"  warned  Mrs.  Merriam,  with  a  glance  to- 
ward Missy.  Then,  in  a  louder  tone:  "Eat  your 
cereal,  Missy.  Why  are  you  letting  it  get  cold?" 

Missy  brought  her  eyes  back  from  space  with  an 
answering  smile.  "I  was  thinking,"  she  explained. 

"What  of,  Missy?"  This,  encouragingly,  from 
father. 

"Oh,  my  dream,  last  night." 

"What  did  you  dream  about?" 

"Oh — mountains,"  replied  Missy,  somewhat 
vaguely. 

"For  the  land's  sake!"  exclaimed  Aunt  Nettie. 
"What  ever  put  such  a  thing  into  her  head?  She 
never  saw  a  mountain  in  her  life!"  Grown-ups  have 
a  disconcerting  way  of  speaking  of  children,  even 
when  present,  in  the  third  person.  But  Aunt  Nettie 
finally  turned  to  Missy  with  a  direct  (and  dreaded) : 
"What  did  they  look  like,  Missy?" 

"Oh — mountains,"  returned  Missy,  still  vague. 

At  a  sign  from  mother,  the  others  did  not  press 
her  further.  When  she  had  finished  her  breakfast, 
Missy  approached  her  mother,  and  the  latter,  read- 
ing the  question  in  her  eyes,  asked: 

"Well,  what  is  it,  Missy?" 

"I  feel — like  pink  to-day,"  faltered  Missy,  half- 
embarrassed. 


44  Missy 

But  her  mother  did  not  ask  for  explanation.  She 
only  pondered  a  moment. 

"You  know,"  reminded  the  supplicant,  "I  have 
to  try  on  the  Pink  Dress  this  morning." 

"Very  well,  then,"  granted  mother.  "But  only 
the  second-best  ones." 

Missy's  face  brightened  and  she  made  for  the  door. 

Before  she  got  altogether  out  of  earshot,  Aunt  Net- 
tie began:  "I  don't  know  that  it's  wise  to  humour 
her  in  her  notions.  ' Feel  like  pink!' — what  in  the 
world  does  she  mean  by  that?" 

Missy  was  glad  the  question  had  not  been  put  to 
her;  for,  to  have  saved  her  life,  she  couldn't  have 
answered  it  intelligibly.  She  was  out  of  hearing  too 
soon  to  catch  her  mother's  answer: 

"She's  just  worked  up  over  the  wedding,  and  be- 
ing a  flower-girl  and  all." 

"Well,  I  don't  believe,"  stated  Aunt  Nettie  with 
the  assurance  that  spinsters  are  wont  to  show  in  dis- 
cussing such  matters,  "that  it's  good  for  children  to 
let  them  work  themselves  up  that  way.  She'll  be  as 
much  upset  as  the  bridegroom  if  Helen  does  back 
out." 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  old  Mrs.  Greenleaf  would  ever 
let  her  break  it  off,  now,"  said  Mrs.  Merriam,  stoop- 
ing to  pick  up  the  papers  which  her  husband  had 
left  strewn  over  the  floor. 

"She's  hard  as  rocks,"  agreed  Aunt  Nettie. 

"Though,"  Mrs.  Merriam  went  on,  "when  it's  a 
question  of  her  daughter's  happiness — " 

"A  little  unhappiness  would  serve  Helen  Green- 


"  Your  True  Friend,  Melissa  M."          45 

leaf  right,"  commented  the  other  tartly.  "She's 
spoiled  to  death  and  a  flirt.  /  think  it  was  a  lucky 
day  for  young  Doc  Alison  when  she  jilted  him." 

"She's  just  young  and  vain,"  championed  Mrs. 
Merriam,  carefully  folding  the  papers  and  laying 
them  in  the  rack.  "Any  pretty  girl  in  Helen's  posi- 
tion couldn't  help  being  spoiled.  And  you  must  ad- 
mit nothing's  ever  turned  her  head — Europe,  or  her 
visits  to  Cleveland,  or  anything." 

"The  Cleveland  man  is  handsome,"  said  Aunt 
Nettie  irrelevantly — the  Cleveland  man  was  the 
bridegroom-elect. 

"Yes,  in  a  stylish,  sporty  kind  of  way.  But  I 
don't  know — "  She  hesitated  a  moment,  then  con- 
cluded: "Missy  doesn't  like  him." 

At  that  Aunt  Nettie  laughed  with  genuine  mirth, 
"What  on  earth  do  you  think  a  child  would  know 
about  it?"  she  ridiculed. 

Meanwhile  the  child,  whose  departure  had  thus 
loosed  free  speech,  was  leagues  distant  from  the  gos- 
sip and  the  unrest  which  was  its  source.  Her  pink 
hair  bows,  even  the  second-best  ones,  lifted  her  to  a 
state  which  made  it  much  pleasanter  to  idle  in  her 
window,  sniffing  at  the  honey-suckle,  than  to  hurry 
down  to  the  piano.  She  longed  to  make  up  some- 
thing which,  like  a  tune  of  water  rippling  over  pink 
pebbles,  was  running  through  her  head.  But  faith- 
fully, at  last,  she  toiled  through  her  hour,  and  then 
was  called  on  to  mind  the  Baby. 

This  last  duty  was  a  real  pleasure.  For  she  could 
wheel  the  perambulator  off  to  the  summerhouse,  in 


46  Missy 

a  secluded,  sweet-smelling  corner  of  the  yard,  and 
there  recite  poetry  aloud.  To  reinforce  those  verses 
she  knew  by  heart,  she  carried  along  the  big  Anthol- 
ogy which,  in  its  old-blue  binding,  contrasted  so  sat- 
isfyingly  with  the  mahogany  table  in  the  sitting- 
room.  The  first  thing  she  read  was  "Before  the  Be- 
ginning of  Years"  from  "Atalanta  in  Calydon"; 
Missy  especially  adored  Swinburne — so  liltingly  in- 
comprehensible. 

The  performance,  as  ever,  was  highly  successful 
all  around.  Baby  really  enjoyed  it  and  Poppylinda 
as  well,  both  of  them  blinking  in  placid  appreciation. 
And  as  for  Missy,  the  liquid  sound  of  the  metres 
rolling  off"  her  own  lips,  the  phrases  so  beautiful  and 
so  "deep,"  seemed  to  lift  a  choking  something  right 
up  into  her  throat  until  she  could  have  wept  with 
the  sweet  pain  of  it.  She  did,  as  a  matter  of  fact — 
happy  tears,  about  which  her  two  auditors  asked  no 
embarrassing  question.  Baby  merely  gurgled,  and 
Poppylinda  essayed  to  climb  the  declaimer's  skirts. 

"Sit  down,  sad  Soul!"  Missy's  mood  could  no 
longer  even  attempt  to  mate  with  prose.  She  turned 
through  the  pages  of  the  Anthology  until  she  came 
to  another  favourite: 

So  faithful  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 
There  never  was  knight  like  young  Lochinvar. 

This  she  read  through,  with  a  fine,  swinging  rhythm. 
"I  think  that  last  stanza's  perfectly  exquisite — 
don't  you?"  Missy  enquired  of  her  mute  audience. 
And  she  repeated  it,  as  unctuously  as  though  she 
were  the  poet  herself. 


"Your  True  Friend,  Melissa  M."         47 

Then,  quite  naturally,  this  romance  recalled  to  her 
the  romance  next  door,  so  deliciously  absorbing  her 
waking  and  dreaming  hours — the  romance  of  her  own 
Miss  Princess.  Miss  Princess — Missy's  more  formal 
adaptation  of  Young  Doc's  soubriquet  for  Helen 
Greenleaf  in  the  days  of  his  romance — was  the  most 
beautiful  heroine  imaginable.  And  the  Wedding  was 
next  week,  and  Missy  was  to  walk  first  of  all  the  six 
flower-girls,  and  the  Pink  Dress  was  all  but  done, 
and  the  Pink  Stockings — silk! — were  upstairs  in  the 
third  drawer  of  the  high-boy!  Oh,  it  was  a  golden 
world,  radiant  with  joy.  Of  course — it's  only  earth, 
after  all,  and  not  heaven — she'd  rather  the  bride- 
groom was  going  to  be  young  Doc.  But  Miss  Prin- 
cess had  arranged  it  this  other  way — her  bridegroom 
had  come  out  of  the  East.  And  the  Wedding  was 
almost  here!  .  .  .  There  never  was  morning  so 
fair,  nor  grass  so  vivid  and  shiny,  nor  air  so  soft. 
Above  her  head  the  cherry-buds  were  swelling,  al- 
most ready  to  burst.  From  the  open  windows  of 
the  house,  down  the  street,  sounds  from  a  patient 
piano,  flattered  by  distance,  betokened  that  Kitty 
Allen  was  struggling  with  "Perpetual  Motion";  Mis- 
sy, who  had  finished  her  struggles  with  that  abomi- 
nation-to-beginners  a  month  previously,  felt  her 
sense  of  beatitude  deepen. 

Presently  into  this  Elysium  floated  her  mother's 
voice,  summoning  her  to  the  house.  Rounding  the 
corner  of  the  back  walk  with  the  perambulator,  she 
collided  with  the  grocer-boy.  He  was  a  nice-man- 
nered boy,  picking  up  the  Anthology  and  Baby's 


48  Missy 

doll  from  the  ground,  and  handing  them  to  her  with 
a  charming  smile.  Besides,  he  had  very  bright, 
sparkling  eyes.  Missy  fancied  he  must  be  some  lost 
Prince,  and  inwardly  resolved  to  make  up,  as  soon 
as  alone,  a  story  to  this  effect. 

In  the  house,  mother  told  her  it  was  time  to  go  to 
Miss  Martin's  to  try  on  the  Pink  Dress. 

Down  the  street,  she  encountered  Mr.  Hackett, 
the  rich  bridegroom  come  out  of  the  East,  a  striking 
figure,  on  that  quiet  street,  in  the  natty  white  flan- 
nels suggesting  Cleveland,  Atlantic  City,  and  other 
foreign  places. 

"Well,  if  here  isn't  Sappho!"  he  greeted  her  gaily. 

Missy  blushed.  Not  for  worlds  had  she  suspected 
he  was  hearing  her,  that  unlucky  morning  in  the 
grape-arbour,  when  she  recited  her  latest  Poem  to 
Miss  Princess.  Now  she  smiled  perfunctorily,  and 
started  to  pass  him. 

But  Mr.  Hackett,  swinging  his  stick,  stood  with 
his  feet  wide  apart  and  looked  down  at  her. 

"How's  the  priestess  of  song,  this  fine  morning?" 
he  persisted. 

"All-right,"  stammered  Missy. 

He  laughed,  as  if  actually  enjoying  her  confusion. 
Missy  observed  that  his  eyes  were  red-rimmed,  and 
his  face  a  pasty  white.  She  wondered  whether  he 
was  sick;  but  he  jauntily  waved  his  stick  at  her  and 
went  on  his  way. 

Missy,  a  trifle  subdued,  continued  hers. 

But  oh,  it  is  a  wonderful  world !  You  never  know 
what  any  moment  may  bring  you.  Adventures 


"Your  True  Friend,  Melissa  M."        49 

fairy-sent  surprises,  await  you  at  the  most  unex- 
pected turns,  spring  at  you  from  around  the  first 
corner. 

It  was  around  the  very  first  corner,  in  truth,  that 
Missy  met  young  Doc  Alison,  buzzing  leisurely  along 
in  his  Ford. 

"Hello,  Missy,"  he  greeted.    "Like  a  lift?" 

Missy  would.  Young  Doc  jumped  out,  and,  in  a 
deferential  manner  she  admired  very  much,  assisted 
her  into  the  little  car  as  though  she  were  a  grown-up 
and  lovely  young  lady.  Young  Doc  was  a  nice  man. 
She  knew  him  well.  He  had  felt  her  pulse,  looked  at 
her  tongue,  sent  her  Valentines,  taken  her  riding, 
and  shown  her  many  other  little  courtesies  for  as  far 
back  as  she  could  remember.  Then,  too,  she  greatly 
admired  his  looks.  He  was  tall  and  lean  and  wiry. 
His  face  was  given  to  quick  flashes  of  smiling;  and 
his  eyes  could  be  dreamy  or  luminous.  He  resem- 
bled, Missy  now  decided — and  marvelled  she  hadn't 
noticed  it  before — that  other  young  man,  Lochinvar, 
"so  faithful  in  love  and  so  dauntless  in  war." 

When  young  Doc  politely  enquired  whether  she 
could  steal  enough  time  from  her  errand  to  turn 
about  for  a  run  up  "The  Boulevard,"  Missy  acqui- 
esced. She  regretted  she  hadn't  worn  her  shirred 
mull  hat.  But  she  decided  not  to  worry  about  that. 
After  all,  her  appearance,  at  the  present  moment, 
didn't  so  much  matter.  What  did  matter  was  the 
way  she  was  going  to  look  next  Wednesday — and 
she  excitedly  began  telling  young  Doc  about  her 
coming  magnificence. 


50  Missy 

"It's  silk  organdie,"  she  said  in  a  reverent  tone, 
"and  has  garlands  of  rosebuds."  She  went  on  and 
told  him  of  the  big  leghorn  hat  to  be  filled  with  flow- 
ers, of  the  Pink  Stockings — best  of  all,  silk! — wait- 
ing, in  tissue-paper,  in  the  high-boy  drawer. 

"Oh,  I  can  hardly  wait!"  she  concluded  raptur- 
ously. 

Young  Doc,  guiding  the  car  around  the  street- 
sprinkling  wagon,  did  not  answer.  Beyond  the 
wagon,  Mr.  Hackett,  whom  the  Ford  had  overtaken, 
was  swinging  along.  Missy  turned  to  young  Doc 
with  a  slight  grimace. 

'The    poor   craven    bridegroom    said    never    a 
word,' "  she  quoted. 

Young  Doc  permitted  himself  to  smile — not  too 
much.  "Why  don't  you  like  him,  Missy?" 

Missy  shook  her  head,  without  other  reply.  It 
would  have  been  difficult  for  her  to  express  why  she 
didn't  like  stylish  Mr.  Hackett. 

"I  wish,"  she  said  suddenly,  "that  you  were  going 
to  be  the  bridegroom,  Doc." 

He  smiled  a  wry  smile  at  her.  "Well,  to  tell  the 
truth,  I  wish  so,  too,  Missy." 

"Well,  she'll  be  coming  back  to  visit  us  often, 
and  maybe  you  can  take  us  out  riding  again." 

"Maybe — but  after  getting  used  to  big  imported 
cars,  I'm  afraid  one  doesn't  care  much  for  a  Ford." 

There  was  a  note  of  cynicism,  of  pain,  which,  be- 
cause she  didn't  know  what  it  was,  cut  Missy  to  the 
heart.  It  is  all  very  well,  in  Romance  and  Poems, 
to  meet  with  unhappy,  discarded  lovers — they  played 


"Your  True  Friend,  Melissa  M."         51 

an  essential  part  in  many  of  the  best  ballads  in  the 
Anthology;  but  when  that  romantic  role  falls,  in  real 
life,  on  the  shoulders  of  a  nice  young  Doc,  the  mat- 
ter assumes  a  different  complexion.  Missy's  own 
ecstasy  over  the  Wedding  suddenly  loomed  thought- 
less, selfish,  wicked.  She  longed  timidly  to  reach 
over  and  pat  that  lean  brown  hand  resting  on  the 
steering-wheel.  Two  sentences  she  formed  in  her 
mind,  only  to  abandon  them  unspoken,  when,  to  her 
relief,  the  need  for  delicate  diplomacy  was  tempora- 
rily removed  by  the  car's  slowing  to  a  stop  before 
Miss  Martin's  gate. 

Inside  the  little  white  cotcage,  however,  in  Miss 
Martin's  sitting-room — so  queer  and  fascinating  with 
its  "forms,"  its  samples  and  "trimmings"  pinned  to 
the  curtains,  its  alluring  display  of  fashion  maga- 
zines and  "charts,"  and  its  eternal  litter  of  vari- 
coloured scraps  over  the  floor — Missy's  momentary 
dejection  could  but  vanish.  Finally,  when  hi  Miss 
Martin's  artfully  tilted  cheval  glass,  she  surveyed 
the  pink  vision  which  was  herself,  gone,  for  the  time, 
was  everything  of  sadness  in  the  world.  She  turned 
her  head  this  way  and  that,  craning  to  get  the  effect 
from  every  angle — the  bouffance  of  the  skirt,  the 
rosebuds  wreathing  the  sides,  the  butterfly  sash  in 
the  back.  Adjured  by  Miss  Martin  to  stand  still, 
she  stood  vibrantly  poised  like  a  lily-stem  waiting 
the  breath  of  the  wind;  bade  to  "lift  up  your  arms," 
she  obeyed  and  visioned  winged  fairies  alert  for 
flight.  Even  when  Miss  Martin,  tarried  away  by 
her  zeal  in  fitting,  stuck  a  pin  through  the  pink  tis- 


52  Missy 

sue  clear  into  the  warmer,  softer  pink  beneath,  Mis- 
sy scarcely  felt  the  prick. 

But,  at  the  midday  dinner-table,  that  sympathetic 
uneasiness  returned.  Father,  home  from  the  office, 
was  full  of  indignation  over  something  "disgraceful" 
he  had  heard  down  town.  Though  the  conversation 
was  held  tantalizingly  above  Missy's  full  comprehen- 
sion, she  could  gather  that  the  "disgrace"  centred  in 
the  bachelor  dinner  which  Mr.  Hackett  had  given  at 
the  Commercial  House  the  night  before.  Father  evi- 
dently held  no  high  opinion  of  the  introduction  of 
"rotten  Cleveland  performances"  nor  of  the  man 
who  had  introduced  them. 

"What  'rotten  Cleveland  performances'?"  asked 
Missy  with  lively  curiosity. 

"Oh,  just  those  late,  indigestible  suppers,"  cut  in 
mother  quickly.  "Rich  food  at  that  hour  just  kills 
your  stomach.  Here,  don't  you  want  another  straw- 
berry tart,  Missy?" 

'Missy  didn't;  but  she  affected  a  desire  for  it,  and 
then  a  keen  interest  in  its  consumption.  By  this  ar- 
tifice, she  hoped  she  might  efface  herself  as  a  hin- 
drance to  continuation  of  the  absorbing  talk.  But  it 
is  a  trick  of  grown-ups  to  stop  dead  at  the  most 
thrilling  points;  though  she  consumed  the  last  crumb 
of  the  tart,  her  ears  gained  no  reward,  until  mother 
said: 

"As  soon  as  youVe  finished  dinner,  Missy,  I  wish 
you'd  run  over  to  Greenleafs'  and  ask  to  borrow 
Miss  Helen's  new  kimono  pattern." 

Missy  brightened.    The  sight  of  old  Mrs.  Green- 


"Your  True  Friend,  Melissa  M."         53 

leaf  and  Miss  Princess,  bustling  gaily  about,  would 
lift  this  strange  cloud  gathering  so  ominously.  She 
asked  permission  to  carry  along  a  bunch  of  sweet 
peas,  and  gathered  the  kind  Miss  Princess  liked  best 
— pinkish  lavender  blossoms,  a  delicious  colour  like 
the  very  fringe  of  a  rainbow. 

The  Greenleafs*  coloured  maid  let  her  in  and 
showed  her  into  the  "den"  back  of  the  parlour. 
"I'll  tell  Mrs.  Greenleaf,"  she  said.  "They're  all 
busy  upstairs." 

Very  busy  they  must  have  been,  for  Missy  had 
restlessly  dangled  her  feet  for  what  seemed  hours, 
before  she  heard  voices  approaching  the  parlour. 

"Oh,  I  won't — I  won't—  It  was  Miss  Princess's 
voice,  almost  unrecognizably  high  and  quavering. 

"Now,  just  listen  a  minute,  darling — "  This  un- 
mistakably Mr.  Hackett's  languorous,  curiously  re- 
pellent monotone. 

"Don't  you  touch  me!" 

Missy,  stricken  by  the  knowledge  she  was  eaves- 
dropping, peered  about  for  a  means  of  slipping  out. 
But  the  only  door,  portiere-hung,  was  the  one  lead- 
ing into  the  parlour.  And  now  this  concealed  poor 
blundering  Missy  from  the  speakers  while  it  allowed 
their  talk  to  drift  through. 

That  talk,  stormy  and  utterly  incomprehensible, 
filled  the  child  with  a  growing  sense  of  terror. 
Accusations,  quick  pleadings,  angry  retorts,  attempts 
at  explanation,  all  formed  a  dreadful  muttering 
background  out  of  which  shot,  like  sharp  streaks  of 
lightning,  occasional  clearly-caught  phrases:  "Charlie 


54  Missy 

White  came  home  dead  drunk,  I  tell  you — "  " — You 
know  I'm  mad  about  you,  Helen,  or  I  wouldn't — ' 
" — Oh,  don't  you  touch  me!" 

To  Missy,  trapped  and  shaking  with  panic,  the 
storm  seemed  to  have  raged  hours  before  she  de- 
tected a  third  voice,  old  Mrs.  GreenleaPs,  which 
cut  calm  and  controlled  across  the  area  of  passion. 

"You'd  better  go  out  a  little  while,  Porter,  and  let 
me  talk  to  her." 

Then  another  interminable  stretch  of  turmoil,  this 
all  the  more  terrifying  because  less  violent. 

"Oh,  mother — I  can't — "  Anger,  spent,  had  given 
way  to  broken  sobbing. 

"I  understand  how  you  feel,  dear.     But  you'll — " 

"I  despise  him!" 

"I  understand,  dear.  All  girls  get  frightened 
and—" 

"But  it  isn't  that,  mother.  I  don't  love  him.  I 
can't  go  on.  Won't  you,  this  minute,  tell  him — tell 
everybody — ?" 

"Darling,  don't  you  realize  I  can't?"  Missy  had 
never  before  heard  old  Mrs.  Greenleaf 's  voice  tremble. 
"The  invitation,  and  the  trousseau,  and  the  presents, 
and  everything.  Think  of  the  scandal,  dear.  We 
couldn't.  Don't  you  see,  dear,  we  can't  back  out, 
now?" 

"O-o-oh." 

"I  almost  wish — but  don't  you  see — ?" 

"Oh,  I  can't  stand  it  another  hour!" 

"You're  excited,  dear,"  soothingly.  "You'd  bet- 
ter go  rest  a  while.  I'll  have  a  good  talk  with 


"Your  True  Friend,  Melissa  M."        55 

Porter.  And  you  go  upstairs  and  lie  down.  The 
Carrolls*  dinner — " 

"Oh,  dinners,  luncheons,  clothes.     I — " 

The  despairing  sound  of  Miss  Princess's  cry,  and 
the  throbbing  realization  that  these  were  calamities 
she  must  not  overhear,  stung  Missy  to  renewed  re- 
connoitring. Tiptoeing  over  to  the  window,  she 
fumbled  at  the  fastening  of  the  screen,  swung  it 
outward,  and,  contemplating  a  jump  to  the  sward 
below,  thrust  one  foot  over  the  sill. 

"Hello,  there!    What  are  you  up  to?" 

On  the  side  porch,  not  twenty  feet  away,  Mr. 
Hackett  was  regarding  her  with  amazed  and 
hostile  eyes.  Missy's  heart  thumped  against 
her  ribs.  Her  consternation  was  not  lessened  when, 
tossing  away  his  cigarette  with  a  vindictive  gesture, 
he  added:  "Stay  where  you  are!" 

Missy  slackened  her  hold  and  crouched  back  like  a 
hunted  criminal.  And  like  a  hunted  criminal  he 
condemned  her,  a  moment  later,  to  old  Mrs.  Green- 
leaf. 

"That  kid  from  next  door  has  been  snooping  in 
here.  I  caught  her  trying  to  sneak  out." 

Missy  faltered  out  her  explanation. 

"I  know  it  wasn't  your  fault,  dear,"  said  old  Mrs. 
Greenleaf  kindly.  "What  was  it  you  wanted  ? " 

Her  errand  forgotten,  Missy  could  only  attempt 
a  smile  and  dumbly  extend  the  bouquet. 

Old  Mrsv.  Greenleaf  took  the  flowers,  then  spoke 
over  her  shoulder:  "I  think  Helen  wants  you  up- 
stairs, Porter." 


56  Missy 

Missy  had  always  thought  she  was  like  a  Roman 
Matron;  now  it  was  upsetting  to  see  the  Roman 
Matron  so  upset. 

"Miss  Helen's  got  a  terrible  headache  and  is  lying 
down,"  said  old  Mrs.  Greenleaf,  fussing  over  the 
flowers. 

"Oh,"  said  Missy,  desperately  tongue-tied  and  ill- 
at-ease. 

For  a  long  second  it  endured  portentously  still  in 
the  room  and  in  the  world  without;  then  like  a  sharp 
thunder-clap  out  of  a  summer  sky,  a  door  slammed 
upstairs.  There  was  a  sound  of  someone  running 
down  the  steps,  and  Missy  glimpsed  Mr.  Hackett  go- 
ing out  the  front  door,  banging  the  screen  after  him. 

At  the  last  noise,  old  Mrs.  Greenleaf's  shoulders 
stiffened  as  if  under  a  lash.  But  she  turned  quietly 
and  said: 

"Thank  you  so  much  for  the  flowers,  Missy. 
I'll  give  them  to  her  after  a  while,  when  she's  better. 
And  you  can  see  her  to-morrow." 

It  was  the  politest  of  dismissals.  Missy,  having 
remembered  the  pattern,  hurriedly  got  it  and  ran 
home.  She  had  seen  a  suspicion  of  tears  in  old  Mrs. 
Greenleaf's  eyes.  It  was  as  upsetting  as  though  the 
bronze  Winged  Victory  on  the  parlour  mantel  should 
begin  to  weep. 

All  that  afternoon  Missy  sought  solitude.  She 
refused  to  play  croquet  with  Kitty  Allen  when  that 
beautiful  and  most  envied  friend  appeared.  When 
Kitty  took  herself  home,  offended,  Missy  went  out 
to  the  remote  summerhouse,  relieved. 


"Your  True  Friend,  Melissa  M."        57 

She  looked  back,  now,  on  her  morning's  careless 
happiness  as  an  old  man  looks  back  on  the  heyday 
of  his  youth. 

Heavy  with  sympathy,  non-comprehension  and 
fear,  she  brooded  over  these  dark,  mysterious  hints 
about  the  handsome  Cleveland  man;  over  young 
Doc's  blighted  love;  over  Miss  Princess's  wanting  to 
"back  out";  over  old  Mrs.  Greenleaf's  strange, 
dominant  "pride." 

Why  did  Miss  Princess  want  to  "back  out"? — 
Miss  Princess  with  her  beautiful  coppery  hair,  and 
eager  parted  lips,  and  eyes  of  mysterious  purple 
(Missy  lingered  on  the  reflection  "eyes  of  mysterious 
purple"  long  enough  to  foreshadow  a  future  poem 
including  that  line).  Was  it  because  she  still  loved 
Doc?  If  so,  why  didn't  it  turn  out  all  right,  since 
Doc  loved  her,  too?  Surely  that  would  be  better, 
since  there  seemed  to  be  something  wrong  with  Mr. 
Hackett — even  though  everybody  did  talk  about 
what  a  wonderful  match  he  was.  Then  they  talked 
about  invitations  and  things  as  though  old  Mrs. 
Greenleaf  thought  those  things  counted  for  more 
than  the  bridegroom.  Old  Mrs.  Greenleaf,  Missy 
was  sure,  loved  Miss  Princess  better  than  anything 
else  in  the  world ;  then  how  could  she,  even  if  she  was 
"proud,"  twist  things  so  foolishly? 

She  had  brought  with  her  the  blue-bound  Anthol- 
ogy and  a  writing-pad  and  pencil.  First  she  read  a 
little — "Lochinvar"  it  was  she  opened  to.  Then  she 
meditated.  Poor  Young  Doc!  The  whole  unhappy 
situation  was  like  poetry.  (So  much  in  life  she  was 


58  Missy 

finding,  these  days,  like  poetry.)  This  would  make  a 
very  sad,  but  effective  poem:  the  faithful,  unhappy 
lover,  the  lovely,  unhappy  bride,  the  mother  keeping 
them  asunder  who,  though  stern,  was  herself  un- 
happy, and  the  craven  bridegroom  who — she  hoped 
it,  anyway! — was  unhappy  also. 

In  all  this  unhappiness,  though  she  didn't  suspect 
it,  Missy  revelled — a  peculiar  kind  of  melancholy 
tuned  to  the  golden  day.  She  detected  a  subtle 
restlessness  in  the  shimmering  leaves  about  her; 
the  scent  of  the  June  roses  caught  at  something 
elusively  sad  in  her.  Without  knowing  why,  her 
eyes  filled  with  tears. 

She  drew  the  writing-pad  to  her;  conjured  the 
vision  of  nice  Doc  and  of  Miss  Princess,  and,  im- 
mersed in  a  sea  of  feeling,  sought  for  words  and  rhyme: 

O,  young  Doctor  Al  is  the  pride  of  the  West, 
Than  big  flashy  autos  his  Ford  is  the  best; 
Ah!  courtly  that  lover  and  faithful  and  true, 
And  fair,  wondrous  fair,  the  maiden  was,  too. 
But  O — dire  the  day!  when  from  Cleveland  afar — 

A  long  pause  here:  "car,"  "scar,"  "jar," — all 
tried  and  discarded.  Finally  sense,  rhyme  and 
meter  were  attuned : 

— afar, 
A  dastard  she  met,  their  sweet  idyl  to  mar. 

He  won  her  away  with  his  glitter  and  plume 
And  citified  ways,  while  the  lover  did  fume. 
O,  fair  dawned  the  Wedding  Day,  pink  in  the  East, 
And  folk  from  all  quarters  did  come  for  the  feast; 
Gay  banners  from  turrets — 


"  Your  True  Friend,  Melissa  M. "         59 

"Missy!" 

The  poet,  head  bent,  absorbed  in  creation,  did  not 
hear. 

"Missy!    Where  are  you?     Me-/w-sa!" 

This  time  the  voice  cleaved  into  the  mood  of  in- 
spiration. With  a  sigh  Missy  put  the  pad  and  pencil 
in  the  Anthology,  laid  the  whole  on  the  bench,  and 
obediently  went  to  mind  the  Baby.  But,  as  she 
wheeled  the  perambulator  up  and  down  the  front 
walk,  her  mind  liltingly  repeated  the  words  she  had 
written,  and  she  stepped  along  in  time  to  the  rhythm. 
It  was  a  fine  rhythm.  And,  as  soon  as  she  was  re- 
lieved from  duty,  she  rushed  back  to  the  temporary 
shrine  of  the  Muse.  The  words,  now,  flowed  much 
more  easily  than  at  the  beginning — one  of  the  first 
lessons  learned  by  all  creative  artists. 

Gay  banners  from  turrets  streamed  out  in  the  air 
And  all  Maple,  Avenue  turned  out  for  the  pair. 
Ah!  beauteous  was  she,  that  white-satin  young  bride, 
But  sorrow  had  reddened  her  deep  purple  eyes. 
Each  clatter  of  hoofs  from  the  courtyard  below 
Did  summon  the  blood  swift  to  ebb  and  then  flow; 
For  the  gem  on  her  finger,  the  flower  in  her  hair, 
Bound  not  her  sad  heart  to  that  Cleveland  man  there, 

Ah!  who  is  this  riding  so  fast  through  Main  Street? 
The  gallant  young  lover — 

Again,  reiterant  and  increasingly  imperative,  sum- 
mons from  the  house  slashed  across  her  mood.  Can't 
one's  family  ever  appreciate  the  yearning  for  solitude? 
However,  even  amid  the  talkative  circle  round  the 
supper-table,  Missy  felt  uplifted  and  strangely  re- 
mote. 


60  Missy 

"Why  aren't  you  eating  your  supper,  Missy? 
Just  look  at  that  wasted  good  meat!" 

"Meat,"    though    a    good    rhyme    for    "street,' 
would    not    work    well.     "Neat"— "fleet"—    Ah! 
"Fleet!" 

Immediately  after  supper,  followed  by  the  in- 
quisitive Poppylinda,  Missy  took  her  poem  out  to 
the  comparative  solitude  of  the  back  porch  steps. 
It  was  very  sweet  and  still  out  there,  the  sun  sink- 
ing blood-red  over  the  cherry  trees.  With  no 
difficulty  at  all,  she  went  on,  inspired : 

— Main  Street? 

The  gallant  young  Doctor  in  his  motor  so  fleet! 
So  flashing  his  eye  and  so  stately  his  form 
That  the  bride's  sinking  heart  with  delight  did  grow  warm. 
But  the  poor  craven  bridegroom  said  never  a  word; 
And  the  parent  so  proud  did  champ  in  her  woe. 

The  knight  snatched  her  swiftly  into  the  Ford, 

And  she  smiled  as  he  steered  adown  the  Boulevard; 

Then  away  they  did  race  until  soon  lost  to  view, 

And  all  knew  'twas  best  for  these  lovers  so  true. 

For  where,  tell  me  where,  would  have  gone  that  bride's  bliss? 

Who  flouts  at  true  love  all  true  happiness  must  miss! 

What  matters  the  vain  things  of  Earth,  soon  or  late, 
If  the  heart  of  a  loved  one  in  anguish  doth  break? 

When  she  came  to  the  triumphant  close,  among  the 
fragrant  cherry  blooms  the  birds  were  twittering 
their  lullabies.  She  went  in  to  say  her  own  good 
night,  the  Poem,  much  erased  and  interlined,  tucked 
in  the  front  of  her  blouse  together  with  ineffable  sen- 
sations. But  she  was  not,  for  all  that,  beyond  a 
certain  concern  for  material  details. 


"Your  True  Friend,  Melissa  M."         61 

"Mother,  may  1  do  my  hair  up  in  kid-curlers?" 
she  asked. 

"Why,  this  is  only  Wednesday."  Mother's  tone 
connoted  the  fact  that  "waves,"  rippling  artificially 
either  side  of  Missy's  "part"  down  to  her  two  braids, 
achieved  a  decorative  effect  reserved  for  Sundays 
and  special  events.  Then  quickly,  perhaps  because 
she  hadn't  been  altogether  unaware  of  this  last  visi- 
tation of  the  Heavenly  Muse,  she  added:  "Well,  I 
don't  care.  Do  it  up,  if  you  want  to." 

Then,  moved  by  some  motive  of  her  own,  she  fol- 
lowed Missy  upstairs  to  do  it  up  herself.  These  oc- 
casions of  personal  service  were  rare,  these  days, 
since  Missy  had  grown  big  and  efficient,  and  were 
therefore  deeply  cherished.  But  to-night  Missy  al- 
most regretted  her  mother's  unexpected  ministra- 
tion; for  the  paper  in  her  blouse  crackled  at  unwary 
gestures,  and  if  mother  should  protract  her  stay 
throughout  the  undressing  period,  there  might  come 
an  awkward  call  for  explanations. 

And  mother,  innocently,  added  one  more  element 
to  her  entangled  burden  of  distress. 

"We'll  do  it  up  all  over  your  head,  for  the  Wed- 
ding," she  said,  gently  brushing  the  full  length  of 
the  fine,  silvery-brown  strands.  "And  let  it  hang  in 
loose  curls." 

At  the  conjectured  vision,  Missy's  eyes  began  to 
sparkle. 

"And  I  think  a  ribbon  band  the  colour  of  your 
dress  would  be  pretty,"  mother  went  on,  parting  off 
a  section  and  wrapping  it  round  a  "curler." 


62  Missy 

A  sudden  remembrance  clutched  at  Missy's  ec- 
static reply;  the  shine  faded  from  her  eyes.  But 
mother,  engrossed,  didn't  observe;  more  deeply  she 
sank  her  unintentional  barb.  "No,"  she  mused 
aloud,  "a  garland  of  little  rosebuds  would  be  bet- 
ter, I  believe — tiny  delicate  little  buds,  tied  with  a 
pink  bow." 

At  that,  the  prospective  flower-girl,  to  have  saved 
her  life,  could  not  have  repressed  the  sigh  which  rose 
like  a  tidal  wave  from  her  overcharged  heart.  Moth- 
er caught  the  sigh,  and  looked  at  her  anxiously. 
"Don't  you  think  it  would  look  pretty?"  she  asked. 

Missy  nodded  mutely.  So  complex  were  her  emo- 
tions that,  fearing  for  self-control,  she  was  glad,  just 
then,  that  the  Baby  cried. 

As  soon  as  mother  had  kissed  her  good  night  and 
left  her,  she  pulled  out  the  paper  rustling  important- 
ly within  her  blouse,  and  laid  it  in  the  celluloid 
"treasure  box"  which  sat  on  the  high-boy.  Then 
soberly  she  finished  the  operation  on  her  hair,  and 
undressed  herself. 

Before  getting  into  bed,  after  her  regular  prayer 
was  said,  she  stayed  awhile  on  her  knees  and  put 
the  whole  of  her  seething  dilemma  before  God. 
"Dear  God,"  she  said,  "you  know  how  unhappy 
Miss  Princess  is  and  young  Doc,  too.  Please  make 
them  both  happy,  God.  And  please  help  me  not  feel 
sorry  about  the  Pink  Dress.  For  I  just  can't  help 
feeling  sorry.  Please  help  us  all,  dear  God,  and  I'll 
be  such  a  good  girl,  God." 

Perhaps  it  is  the  biggest  gift  in  the  world  to  be 


"  Your  True  Friend,  Melissa  M."        63 

able  to  pray.  And,  by  prayer,  is  not  meant  the  say- 
ing over  of  a  formal  code,  but  the  simple,  direct 
speaking  with  God.  It  is  so  simple  in  the  doing,  so 
marvellous  in  its  reaction,  that  the  strange  thing  is 
that  it  is  not  more  generally  practiced.  But  there  is 
where  the  gift  comes  in :  a  supreme  essence  of  spirit 
which  must,  if  the  prayer  is  to  achieve  its  end,  be 
first  possessed — a  thing  possessed  by  all  children  not 
yet  quite  rid  of  the  glamour  of  immortality  and  by 
some,  older,  who  contrive  to  hold  enough  glamour 
to  be  as  children  throughout  life.  Some  call  this 
thing  Faith,  but  there  are  other  names  just  as  good; 
and  the  essence  lives  on  forever. 

These  reflections  are  not  Missy's.  She  knelt  there, 
without  consciousness  of  any  motive  or  analysis. 
She  only  knew  she  was  telling  it  all  to  God.  And 
presently,  in  her  heart,  in  whispers  fainter  than  the 
stir  of  the  slumbering  leaves  outside,  she  heard  His 
answer.  God  had  heard;  she  knew  it  by  the  peace 
He  laid  upon  her  tumultuous  heart. 

Steeped  in  faith,  she  fell  asleep.  But  not  a  dream- 
less sleep.  Missy  always  dreamed,  these  nights: 
wonderful  dreams  —  magical,  splendid,  sometimes 
vaguely  terrifying,  often  remotely  tied  up  with  some 
event  of  the  day,  but  always  wonderful.  And  the 
last  dream  she  dreamed,  this  eventful  night,  was 
marvellous  indeed.  For  it  was  a  replica  of  the  one 
she  had  dreamed  the  night  before. 

It  was  an  omen  of  divine  portent.  No  one  could 
have  doubted  it.  Missy,  waking  from  its  subtle 
glamour  to  the  full  sunlight  streaming  across  her 


64  Missy 

pillow,  hugged  Poppylinda,  crooned  over  her  and, 
though  preparing  to  sacrifice  that  golden  something 
whose  prospect  had  gilded  her  life,  sang  her  way 
through  the  duties  of  her  toilet. 

That  accomplished,  she  lifted  out  her  Poem,  and 
wrote  at  the  bottom:  "Your  true  friend,  MELISSA 
M." 

Then  she  tucked  the  two  sheets  in  her  blouse,  and 
scrambled  downstairs  to  be  chided  again  for  not  eat- 
ing her  breakfast. 

After  the  last  spoonful,  obligatory  and  arduous, 
had  been  disposed  of,  she  loitered  near  the  hall  tele- 
phone until  there  was  a  clear  field,  then  called  Young 
Doc's  number.  What  a  relief  to  find  he  had  not  yet 
gone  out!  Could  he  stop  by  her  house,  pretty  soon? 
Why,  what  was  the  matter — Doc's  voice  was  alarmed 
— someone  sick?!  , 

"No,  but  it's  something  very  important,  Doc." 
Missy's  manner  was  hurried  and  impressive. 

"Won't  it  wait?" 

"It's  terribly  important." 

"What  is  it?    Can't  you  tell  me  now,  Missy?" 

"No — it's  a  secret.  And  I've  got  to  hurry  up 
now  and  hang  up  the  phone  because  it's  a  secret." 

"I  see.  All  right,  I'll  be  along  in  about  fifteen 
minutes.  What  do  you  want  me  to — " 

"Stop  by  the  summerhouse,"  she  cut  in  nervously. 
"I'll  be  there." 

It  seemed  a  long  time,  but  in  reality  was  shorter 
than  schedule,  before  Young  Doc's  car  appeared  up 
the  side  street.  He  brought  it  to  a  stop  opposite  the 


"Your  True  Friend,  Melissa  M."        65 

summerhouse,  jumped  out  and  approached  the  ren- 
dezvous. 

Summoning  all  her  courage,  she  held  the  Poem 
ready  in  her  hand. 

"Good  morning,  Missy,"  he  sang  out.  "What's 
all  the  mystery?" 

For  answer  Missy  could  only  smile — a  smile  made 
wan  by  nervousness — and  extend  the  two  crumpled 
sheets  of  paper. 

Young  Doc  took  them  curiously,  smiled  at  the 
primly-lettered,  downhill  lines,  and  then  narrowed 
his  eyes  to  skimming  absorption.  A  strange  expres- 
sion gathered  upon  his  face  as  he  read.  Missy  didn't 
know  exactly  what  to  make  of  his  working  muscles 
— whether  he  was  pained  or  angry  or  amused.  But 
she  was  entirely  unprepared  for  the  fervour  with 
which,  when  he  finished,  he  seized  her  by  the  shoul- 
ders and  bounced  her  up  and  down. 

"Did  you  make  all  this  up?"  he  cried.  "Or  do 
you  mean  she  really  doesn't  want  to  marry  that 
bounder?" 

"She  really  doesn't,"  answered  Missy,  not  too  en- 
gaged in  steeling  herself  against  his  crunching  of  her 
shoulder  bones  to  register  the  soubriquet,  "bounder." 

"Are  you  sure  you  didn't  make  most  of  it  up?'* 
Young  Doc  knew  well  Missy's  strain  of  romanticism. 
But  she  strove  to  convince  him  that,  for  once,  she 
was  by  way  of  being  a  realist. 

"She  despises  him.  She  can't  bear  to  go  on  with 
it.  She  can't  stand  it  another  hour.  I  heard  her  say 
so  myself." 


66  Missy 

Young  Doc,  crunching  her  shoulder  bones  worse 
than  ever,  breathed  hard,  but  said  nothing.  Missy 
proffered  bashfully: 

"I  think,  maybe,  she  wants  to  marry  you,  Doc." 

Young  Doc  then,  just  at  the  moment  she  couldn't 
have  borne  the  vise  a  second  longer,  let  go  her  shoul- 
ders, and  smiled  a  smile  which,  for  her,  would  have 
eased  a  splintered  bone  itself. 

"We'll  quickly  find  that  out,"  he  said,  and  his 
voice  was  more  buoyant  than  she  had  heard  it  in 
months.  "Missy,  do  you  think  you  could  get  a  note 
to  her  right  away  ? " 

Missy  nodded  eagerly. 

He  scribbled  the  note  on  the  back  of  a  letter  and 
folded  it  with  the  Poem  in  the  used  envelope.  "There 
won't  be  any  answer,"  he  directed  Missy,  "unless 
she  brings  it  herself.  Just  get  it  to  her  without  any- 
one's seeing." 

Missy  nodded  again,  vibrant  with  repressed  ex- 
citement. "I'll  just  pretend  it's  a  secret  about  a 
poem.  Miss  Princess  always  helps  make  secrets 
about  poems." 

Evidently  Miss  Princess  did  so  this  time.  For, 
after  an  eternity  of  ten  minutes,  Young  Doc,  peer- 
ing through  the  leaves  of  the  summerhouse,  saw 
Missy  and  her  convoy  coming  across  the  lawn.  Mis- 
sy was  walking  along  very  solemnly,  with  only  an 
occasional  skip  to  betray  the  ebullition  within 
her. 

But  it  was  on  the  tall  girl  that  Young  Doc's  gaze 
was  riveted,  the  slender  graceful  figure  which,  for  all 


"Your  True  Friend,  Melissa  M."        67 

its  loveliness,  had  something  pathetically  drooping 
about  it — like  a  lily  with  a  storm-bruised  stem. 

Something  in  Young  Doc's  throat  clicked,  and 
every  last  trace  of  resentment  and  wounded  pride 
magically  dissolved.  He  went  straight  to  her  in  the 
doorway,  and  for  a  moment  they  stood  there  as  if 
forgetful  of  everyone  else  in  the  world.  Neither 
spoke,  as  is  the  way  of  those  whose  minds  and  hearts 
are  full  of  inarticulate  things.  Then  it  was  Doc  who 
broke  the  silence. 

"  By  the  way,  Missy,"  he  said  in  quite  an  ordinary 
tone,  "there  are  some  of  those  sugar  pills  in  a  bag 
out  in  the  Ford.  You'll  find  them  tucked  in  a  cor- 
ner of  the  seat." 

Obediently  Missy  departed  to  get  the  treat.  And 
when  she  returned,  not  too  quickly,  Miss  Princess 
was  laughing  and  crying  both  at  once,  and  Young 
Doc  was  openly  squeezing  both  her  hands. 

"Missy,"  he  hailed,  "run  in  and  ask  your  mother 
if  you  can  go  for  a  ride.  Needn't  mention  Miss 
Princess  is  going  along." 

O,  it  is  a  wonderful  world!  Swiftly  back  at  the 
trysting  place  with  the  necessary  permission,  tucked 
into  the  Ford  between  the  two  happy  lovers,  "away 
they  did  race  until  soon  lost  to  view." 

And  exactly  the  same  happy  purpose  as  that  in 
the  Poem!  For,  half-way  down  the  stretch  of  Boule- 
vard, Miss  Princess  squeezed  her  hand  and  said: 

"We're  going  over  to  Somerville,  darling,  to  be 
married,  and  yoiire  to  be  one  of  the  witnesses." 

Missy's  heart  surged  with  delight — O,  it  was  a 


68  Missy 

wonderful  world!  Then  a  dart  of  remembrance 
came,  and  a  big  tear  spilled  out  and  ran  down  her 
cheek.  Miss  Princess,  in  the  midst  of  a  laugh, 
looked  down  and  spied  it. 

"Why,  darling,  what  is  it?"  she  cried  anxiously. 

"My  Pink  Dress — I  just  happened  to  think  of  it. 
But  it  doesn't  really  make  any  difference."  How- 
ever Missy's  eyes  were  wet  and  shining  with  an 
emotion  she  couldn't  quite  control. 

With  eyes  which  were  shining  with  many  emotions, 
the  man  and  girl,  over  her  head,  regarded  each  other. 
It  was  the  man  who  spoke  first,  slowing  down  the 
car  as  he  did  so. 

"Don't  you  think  we'd  better  run  back  to  Miss 
Martin's  and  get  it?" 

For  answer,  his  sweetheart  leaned  across  Missy 
and  kissed  him. 

A  fifteen  minutes'  delay,  and  again  the  Ford  was 
headed  towards  Somerville  and  the  County  Court- 
house; but  now  an  additional  passenger,  a  big  brown 
box,  was  hugged  between  Missy's  knees.  In  the 
County  Courthouse  she  did  not  forget  to  guard  this 
box  tenderly  all  the  time  Young  Doc  and  Miss 
Princess  were  scurrying  around  musty  offices,  in- 
terviewing important,  shirt -sleeved  men,  and  sign- 
ing papers — not  even  when  she  herself  was  permitted 
to  sign  her  name  to  an  imposing  document,  "just 
for  luck,"  as  Doc  laughingly  said. 

Then  he  bent  his  head  to  hear  what  Miss  Princess 
wanted  to  whisper  to  him,  and  they  both  laughed 
some  more;  and  then  he  said  something  to  the  shirt- 


"Your  True  Friend,  Melissa  M."        69 

sleeved  men,  and  they  laughed;  and  then — O,  it  is 
a  wonderful  world! — Miss  Princess  took  her  into  a 
dusty,  paper-littered  inner  office,  lifted  the  Pink 
Dress  out  of  the  box,  dressed  Missy  up  in  it,  fluffed 
out  the  "wave"  in  her  front  hair,  and  exclaimed  that 
she  was  the  loveliest  little  flower-girl  in  the  whole 
world. 

"Even  without  the  flower-hat  and  the  pink 
stockings  ? " 

"Even  without  the  flower-hat  and  the  pink 
stockings,"  said  Miss  Princess  with  such  assurance 
that  Missy  cast  off  doubt  forever. 

After  the  Wedding — and  never  in  Romance  was 
such  a  gay,  laughing  Wedding — when  again  they  were 
all  packed  in  the  Ford,  Missy  gave  a  contented  sigh. 

"  I  kind  of  knew  it,"  she  confided.  "  For  I  dreamed 
it  all,  two  nights  running.  Both  times  I  had  on  the 
Pink  Dress,  and  both  times  it  was  Doc.  I'm  so  happy 
it's  Doc." 

And  over  her  head  the  other  two  looked  in  each 
other's  eyes. 


Ill 

Like  a  Singing  Bird 

OHE  was  fourteen,  going  on  fifteen;  and  the  world 
^  was  a  fascinating  place.  There  were  people  who 
found  Cherryvale  a  dull,  poky  little  town  to  live  in, 
but  not  Melissa.  Not  even  in  winter,  when  school 
and  lessons  took  up  so  much  time  that  it  almost 
shut  out  reading  and  the  wonderful  dreams  which 
reading  is  bound  to  bring  you.  Yet  even  school- 
especially  high  school  the  first  year — was  interesting. 
The  more  so  when  there  was  a  teacher  like  Miss 
Smith,  who  looked  too  pretty  to  know  so  much  about 
algebra  and  who  was  said  to  get  a  letter  every  day 
from  a  lieutenant — in  the  Philippines!  Then  there 
was  ancient  history,  full  of  things  fascinating 
enough  to  make  up  for  algebra  and  physics.  But 
even  physics  becomes  suddenly  thrilling  at  times. 
And  always  literature!  Of  course  "grades'*  were 
bothersome,  and  sometimes  you  hated  to  show  your 
monthly  report  to  your  parents,  who  seemed  to  set 
so  much  store  by  it;  and  sometimes  you  almost 
envied  Beulah  Crosswhite,  who  always  got  an  A  and 
who  could  ask  questions  which  disconcerted  even  the 
teachers. 

Yes,  even  school  was  interesting.     However,  sum- 
mertime was  best,  although  then  you  must  practice 

70 


Like  a  Singing  Bird  71 

your  music  lesson  two  hours  instead  of  one  a  day, 
dust  the  sitting  room,  and  mind  the  baby.  But  you 
could  spend  long,  long  hours  in  the  summerhouse, 
reading  poetry  out  of  the  big  Anthology  and — this  a 
secret — writing  poetry  yourself!  It  was  heavenly 
to  write  poetry.  Something  soft  and  warm  seemed 
to  ooze  through  your  being  as  you  sat  out  there 
and  watched  the  sorrow  of  a  drab,  drab  sky;  or  else, 
on  a  bright  day,  a  big  shining  cloud  aloft  like  some 
silver-gold  fairy  palace  and,  down  below,  the  smell 
of  warm,  new-cut  grass,  and  whispers  of  little  live 
things  everywhere!  It  was  then  that  you  felt  you'd 
have  died  if  you  couldn't  have  written  poetry! 

It  was  on  such  a  lilting  day  of  June,  and  Melissa's 
whole  being  in  tune  with  it,  that  she  was  called  in 
to  the  midday  dinner — and  received  the  invitation. 

Father  had  brought  it  from  the  post  office  and 
handed  it  to  her  with  exaggerated  solemnity. 

"For  Miss  Melissa  Merriam,"  he  announced. 

Yes!  there  was  her  name  on  the  tiny  envelope. 
And,  on  the  tiny  card  within,  written  in  a  pains- 
taking, cramped  hand : 


With  her  whole  soul  in  her  mouth,  which  made  it 
quite  impossible  to  speak,  she  passed  the  card  to  her 


72  Missy 

mother  and  waited.     "Oh,"  said  mother,  "an  eve- 
ning party.'* 

Melissa's  soul  dropped  a  trifle:  it  still  clogged  her 
throat,  but  she  was  able  to  form  words. 

"Oh,  mother!" 

"You  know  you're  not  to  ask  to  go  to  evening 
parties,  Missy."  Mother's  tone  was  as  firm  as  doom. 

Missy  turned  her  eyes  to  father. 

"Don't  look  at  me  with  those  big  saucers!"  he 
smiled.  "Mother's  the  judge." 

So  Missy  turned  her  eyes  back  again.  "Mother, 
please—'' 

But  mother  shook  her  head.  "You're  too  young 
to  begin  such  things,  Missy.  I  don't  know  what  this 
town's  coming  to — mere  babies  running  round  at 
night,  playing  cards  and  dancing!" 

"But,  mother— " 

"Don't  start  teasing,  Missy.  It  won't  do  any 
good." 

So  Missy  didn't  start  teasing,  but  her  soul  re- 
mained choking  in  her  throat.  It  made  it  difficult 
for  her  to  swallow,  and  nothing  tasted  good,  though 
they  had  lamb  chops,  which  she  adored. 

"Eat  your  meat,  Missy,"  adjured  mother.  Missy 
tried  to  obey  and  felt  that  she  was  swallowing  lumps 
of  lead. 

But  in  the  afternoon  everything  miraculously 
changed.  Kitty  Allen  and  her  mother  came  to  call. 
Kitty  was  her  chum,  and  lived  in  the  next  block, 
up  the  hill.  Kitty  was  beautiful,  with  long  curls 
which  showed  golden  glints  in  the  sun.  She  had  a 


Like  a  Singing  Bird  73 

whim  that  she  and  Missy,  sometimes,  should  have 
dresses  made  exactly  alike — for  instance,  this  sum- 
mer, their  best  dresses  of  pink  dotted  mull.  Missy 
tried  to  enjoy  the  whim  with  Kitty,  but  she  couldn't 
help  feeling  sad  at  seeing  how  much  prettier  Kitty 
could  look  in  the  same  dress.  If  only  she  had  gold- 
threaded  curls! 

During  the  call  the  party  at  the  Bonners'  was 
mentioned.  Mrs.  Allen  was  going  to  "assist"  Mrs. 
Bonner.  She  suggested  that  Missy  might  accompany 
Kitty  and  herself. 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  letting  Missy  go,"  said  Mrs. 
Merriam.  "She  seems  so  young  to  start  going  out 
evenings  that  way." 

"I  know  just  how  you  feel,"  replied  Mrs.  Allen. 
"I  feel  just  the  same  way.  But  as  long  as  I've  got 
to  assist,  I'm  willing  Kitty  should  go  this  time;  and 
I  thought  you  mightn't  object  to  Missy's  going  along 
with  us." 

"Oh,  mother!"    Missy's  tone  was  a  prayer. 

And  her  mother,  smiling  toward  her  a  charming, 
tolerant  smile  as  if  to  say:  "Well,  what  can  one  do 
in  the  face  of  those  eyes?"  finally  assented. 

After  that  the  afternoon  went  rushing  by  on 
wings  of  joy.  When  the  visitors  departed  Missy 
had  many  duties  to  perform,  but  they  were  not  dull, 
ordinary  duties;  they  were  all  tinted  over  with  rain- 
bow colours.  She  stemmed  strawberries  in  the  kitchen 
where  Marguerite,  the  hired  girl,  was  putting  up 
fruit,  and  she  loved  the  pinkish-red  and  grey-green 


74  Missy 

of  the  berries  against  the  deep  yellow  of  the  bowl. 
She  loved,  too,  the  colour  of  the  geraniums  against 
the  green-painted  sill  just  beside  her.  And  the  sun- 
light making  leafwork  brocade  on  the  grass  out  the 
window!  There  were  times  when  combinations  of 
colour  seemed  the  most  beautiful  thing  in  the 
world. 

Then  she  had  to  mind  the  baby  for  a  while,  and 
she  took  him  out  on  the  side  lawn  and  pretended  to 
play  croquet  with  him.  The  baby  wasn't  quite  three, 
and  it  was  delicious  to  see  him,  with  mallet  and  ball 
before  a  wicket,  trying  to  mimic  the  actions  of  his 
elders.  Poppylinda,  Missy's  big  black  cat,  wanted 
to  play  too,  and  succeeded  in  getting  between  the 
baby's  legs  and  upsetting  him.  But  the  baby  was 
under  a  charm;  he  only  picked  himself  up  and 
laughed.  And  Missy  was  sure  that  black  Poppy 
also  laughed. 

That  night  at  supper  she  didn't  have  much  chance 
to  talk  to  father  about  the  big  event,  for  he  had 
brought  an  old  friend  home  to  supper.  Missy  was 
rather  left  out  of  the  conversation.  She  felt  glad 
for  that;  it  is  hard  to  talk  to  old  people;  it  is  hard 
to  express  to  them  the  thoughts  and  feelings  that 
possess  you.  Besides,  to-night  she  didn't  want  to 
talk  to  anyone,  nor  to  listen.  She  only  wanted  to 
sit  immersed  in  that  soft,  warm,  fluttering  delicious- 
ness. 

Just  as  the  meal  was  over  the  hall  telephone  rang 
and,  at  a  sign  from  mother,  she  excused  herself  to 
answer  it.  From  outside  the  door  she  heard  father's 


Like  a  Singing  Bird  75 

friend  say:    "What  beautiful  eyes!"    Could  he  be 
speaking  of  her? 

The  evening,  as  the  afternoon  had  been,  was  di- 
vine. When  Missy  was  getting  ready  for  bed  she 
leaned  out  of  the  window  to  look  at  the  night,  and 
the  fabric  of  her  soul  seemed  to  stretch  out  and  min- 
gle with  all  that  dark,  luminous  loveliness.  It  seemed 
that  she  herself  was  a  part  of  the  silver  moon  high 
up  there,  a  part  of  the  white,  shining  radiance  which 
spread  down  and  over  leaves  and  grass  everywhere. 
The  strong,  damp  scent  of  the  ramblers  on  the  porch 
seemed  to  be  her  own  fragrant  breath,  and  the  black 
shadows  pointing  out  from  the  pine  trees  were  her 
own  blots  of  sadness — sadness  vague  and  mysterious, 
with  more  of  pleasure  in  it  than  pain. 

She  could  hardly  bear  to  leave  this  mysterious, 
fascinating  night;  to  leave  off  thinking  the  big, 
vague  thoughts  the  night  always  called  forth;  but 
she  had  to  light  the  gas  and  set  about  the  business 
of  undressing. 

But,  first,  she  paused  to  gaze  at  herself  in  the 
looking-glass.  For  the  millionth  time  she  wished 
she  were  pretty  like  Kitty  Allen.  And  Kitty  would 
wear  her  pink  dotted  mull  to  the  party.  Missy 
sighed. 

Then  meditatively  she  unbraided  her  long,  mouse- 
coloured  braids;  twisted  them  into  tentative  loops 
over  her  ears;  earnestly  studied  the  effect.  No;  her 
hair  was  too  straight  and  heavy.  She  tried  to  im- 
agine undulating  waves  across  her  forehead — if  only 


76  Missy 

mother  would  let  her  use  crimpers!  Perhaps  she 
would!  And  then,  perhaps,  she  wouldn't  look  so 
plain.  She  wished  she  were  not  so  plain;  the  long- 
ing to  be  pretty  made  her  fairly  ache. 

Then  slowly  the  words  of  that  man  crept  across 
her  memory:  "What  beautiful  eyes!"  Could  he 
have  meant  her?  She  stared  at  the  eyes  which 
stared  back  from  the  looking-glass  till  she  had  the 
odd  sensation  that  they  were  something  quite  strange 
and  alien  to  her:  big,  dark,  deep,  and  grave  eyes, 
peering  out  from  some  unknown  consciousness.  And 
they  were  beautiful  eyes ! 

Suddenly  she  was  awakened  from  her  dreams  by 
a  voice  at  the  door:  "Missy,  why  in  the  world 
haven't  you  gone  to  bed  ? " 

Missy  started  and  blushed  as  though  discovered 
in  mischief. 

"What  have  you  been  doing  with  your  hair?" 

"Oh,  just  experimenting.  Mother,  may  I  have  it 
crimped  for  the  party?" 

"I  don't  know — we'll  see.  Now  hurry  and  jump 
into  bed." 

After  mother  had  kissed  her  good  night  and  gone, 
and  after  the  light  had  been  turned  out,  Missy  lay 
awake  for  a  long  time. 

Through  the  lace  window  curtains  shone  the  moon- 
light, a  gleaming  path  along  which  Missy  had  often 
flown  out  to  be  a  fairy.  It  is  quite  easy  to  be  a 
fairy.  You  lie  perfectly  still,  your  arms  stretched 
out  like  wings.  Then  you  fix  your  eyes  on  the  moon- 
light and  imagine  you  feel  your  wings  stir.  And  the 


Like  a  Singing  Bird  77 

first  thing  you  know  you  feel  yourself  being  wafted 
through  the  window,  up  through  the  silver-tinged 
air.  You  touch  the  clouds  with  your  magic  wand, 
and  from  them  fall  shimmering  jewels. 

Missy  was  fourteen,  going  on  fifteen,  but  she  could 
still  play  being  a  fairy. 

But  to-night,  though  the  fairy  path  stretched  in- 
vitingly to  her  very  bed,  she  did  not  ride  out  upon 
it.  She  shut  her  eyes,  though  she  felt  wide-awake. 
She  shut  her  eyes  so  as  to  see  better  the  pictures 
that  came  before  them. 

With  her  eyes  shut  she  could  see  herself  quite 
plainly  at  the  party.  She  looked  like  herself,  only 
much  prettier.  Yes,  and  a  little  older,  perhaps.  Her 
pink  dotted  mull  was  easily  recognizable,  though  it 
had  taken  on  a  certain  ethereally  chic  quality — as  if 
a  rosy  cloud  had  been  manipulated  by  French  fin- 
gers. Her  hair  was  a  soft,  bright,  curling  triumph. 
And  when  she  moved  she  was  graceful  as  a  swaying 
flower  stem. 

As  Missy  watched  this  radiant  being  which  was 
herself  she  could  see  that  she  was  as  gracious  and 
sweet-mannered  as  she  was  beautiful;  perhaps  a  bit 
dignified  and  reserved,  but  that  is  always  fitting. 

No  wonder  the  other  girls  and  the  boys  gathered 
round  her,  captivated.  All  the  boys  were  eager  to 
dance  with  her,  and  when  she  danced  she  reminded 
you  of  a  swaying  lily.  Most  often  her  partner  was 
Raymond  himself.  Raymond  danced  well  too.  And 
he  was  the  handsomest  boy  at  his  party.  He  had 


78  Missy 

blonde  hair  and  deep,  soft  black  eyes  like  his  father, 
who  was  the  handsomest  as  well  as  the  richest  man 
in  Cherryvale.  And  he  liked  her,  for  last  year,  their 
first  year  in  high  school,  he  used  to  study  the  Latin 
lesson  with  her  and  wait  for  her  after  school  and 
carry  her  books  home  for  her.  He  had  done  that 
although  Kitty  Allen  was  much  prettier  than  she 
and  though  Beulah  Crosswhite  was  much,  much 
smarter.  The  other  girls  had  teased  her  about  him, 
and  the  boys  must  have  teased  Raymond,  for  after 
a  while  he  had  stopped  walking  home  with  her.  She 
didn't  know  whether  she  was  gladder  or  sorrier  for 
that.  But  she  knew  that  she  was  glad  he  did  not 
ignore  that  radiant,  pink-swathed  guest  who,  in  her 
beautiful  vision,  was  having  such  a  glorious  time  at 
his  party. 

Next  morning  she  awoke  to  find  a  soft,  misty  rain 
greying  the  world  outside  her  window.  Missy  did 
not  mind  that;  she  loved  rainy  days — they  made 
you  feel  so  pleasantly  sad.  For  a  time  she  lay  quiet, 
watching  the  slant,  silvery  threads  and  feeling  mys- 
teriously, fascinatingly,  at  peace.  Then  Poppy,  who 
always  slept  at  the  foot  of  her  bed,  awoke  with  a 
tremendous  yawning  and  stretching — exactly  the 
kind  of  "exercises"  that  young  Doc  Alison  pre- 
scribed for  father,  who  hated  to  get  up  in  the  morn- 
ings! 

Then  Poppy,  her  exercises  done,  majestically  trod 
the  coverlet  to  salute  her  mistress  with  the  accus- 
tomed matinal  salutation  which  Missy  called  a  kiss. 
Mother  did  not  approve  of  Poppy's  "kisses,"  but 


Like  a  Singing  Bird  79 

Missy  argued  to  herself  that  the  morning  one,  depend- 
able as  an  alarm  clock,  kept  her  from  oversleeping. 

She  hugged  Poppy,  jumped  out  of  bed,  and  began 
dressing.  When  she  got  downstairs  breakfast  was 
ready  and  the  house  all  sweetly  diffused  with  the 
dreamy  shadows  that  come  with  a  rainy  day. 

Father  had  heard  the  great  news  and  bantered 
her:  "So  we've  got  a  society  queen  in  our  midst!" 

"7  think,"  put  in  Aunt  Nettie,  "that  it's  disgrace- 
ful the  way  they  put  children  forward  these  days/' 

"I  wouldn't  let  Missy  go  if  Mrs.  Allen  wasn't  go- 
ing to  be  there  to  look  after  her,"  said  mother. 

"Mother,  may  I  have  the  hem  of  my  pink  dress 
let  down  ? "  asked  Missy. 

At  that  father  laughed,  and  Aunt  Nettie  might 
just  as  well  have  said:  "I  told  you  so!"  as  put  on 
that  expression. 

"It's  my  first  real  party,"  Missy  went  on,  "and 
I'd  like  to  look  as  pretty  as  I  can." 

Something  prompted  father,  as  he  rose  from  the 
table,  to  pause  and  lay  his  hand  on  Missy's  shoulder. 

"Can't  you  get  her  a  new  ribbon  or  something, 
mother?"  he  asked. 

"Maybe  a  new  sash,"  answered  mother  reflective- 
ly. "They've  got  some  pretty  brocaded  pink  rib- 
bon at  Bonner's." 

After  which  Missy  finished  her  breakfast  in  a  rap- 
ture. It  is  queer  how  you  can  eat,  and  like  what 
you  eat  very  much,  and  yet  scarcely  taste  it  at  all. 

When  the  two  hours  of  practicing  were  over, 
mother  sent  her  down  town  to  buy  the  ribbon  for 


8o  Missy 

the  sash — a  pleasant  errand.  She  changed  the  black 
tie  on  her  middy  blouse  to  a  scarlet  one  and  let  the 
ends  fly  out  of  her  grey  waterproof  cape.  Why  is  it 
that  red  is  such  a  divine  colour  on  a  rainy  day? 

Upon  her  return  there  was  still  an  hour  before 
dinner,  and  she  sat  by  the  dining-room  window  with 
Aunt  Nettie,  to  darn  stockings. 

"Well,  Missy,"  said  Aunt  Nettie  presently,  "a 
penny  for  your  thoughts." 

Missy  looked  up  vaguely,  at  a  loss.  "I  wasn't 
thinking  of  anything  exactly,"  she  said. 

"What  were  you  smiling  about?" 

"Was  I  smiling?" 

Just  then  mother  entered  and  Aunt  Nettie  said: 
"Missy  smiles,  and  doesn't  know  it.  Party!" 

But  Missy  knew  it  wasn't  the  party  entirely.  Nor 
was  it  entirely  the  sound  of  the  rain  swishing,  nor 
the  look  of  the  trees  quietly  weeping,  nor  of  the  viv- 
id red  patches  of  geranium  beds.  Everything  could 
have  been  quite  different,  and  still  she'd  have  felt 
happy.  Her  feeling,  mysteriously,  was  as  much  from 
things  inside  her  as  from  things  outside. 

After  dinner  was  over  and  the  baby  minded  for  an 
hour,  mother  made  the  pink-brocaded  sash.  It  was 
very  lovely.  Then  she  had  an  hour  to  herself,  and 
since  the  rain  wouldn't  permit  her  to  spend  it  in 
the  summerhouse,  she  took  a  book  up  to  her  own 
room.  It  was  a  book  of  poems  from  the  Public 
Library. 

The  first  poem  she  opened  to  was  one  of  the  most 
marvellous  things  she  had  ever  read — almost  as  won- 


Like  a  Singing  Bird  8 1 

derful  as  "The  Blessed  Damozel."  She  was  glad  she 
had  chanced  upon  it  on  a  rainy  day,  and  when  she 
felt  like  this.  It  was  called  "A  Birthday,"  and  it 
went: 

My  heart  is  like  a  singing  bird 

Whose  nest  is  in  a  watered  shoot; 
My  heart  is  like  an  apple  tree 

Whose  boughs  are  bent  with  thickset  fruit; 
My  heart  is  like  a  rainbow  shell 

That  paddles  in  a  halcyon  sea; 
My  heart  is  gladder  than  all  thesey 

Because  my  love  is  come  to  me. 

Raise  me  a  dais  of  silk  and  down; 

Hang  it  with  vair  and  purple  dyes; 
Carve  it  with  doves  and  pomegranates, 

And  peacocks  with  a  hundred  eyes; 
Work  in  it  gold  and  silver  grapes, 

In  leaves  and  silver  fleurs-de-lyst 
Because  the  birthday  of  my  life 

Is  come;  my  love  is  come  to  me. 

The  poem  expressed  beautifully  what  she  might 
have  answered  when  Aunt  Nettie  asked  why  she 
smiled.  Only,  even  though  she  herself  could  have 
expressed  it  so  beautifully  then,  it  was  not  the  kind 
of  answer  you'd  dream  of  making  to  Aunt  Nettie. 

The  next  morning  Missy  awoke  to  find  the  rain 
gone  and  warm,  golden  sunshine  filtering  through 
the  lace  curtains.  She  dressed  herself  quickly,  while 
the  sunshine  smiled  and  watched  her  toilet.  After 
breakfast,  at  the  piano,  her  fingers  found  the  scales 
tiresome.  Of  themselves  they  wandered  off  into  un- 
expected rhythms  which  seemed  to  sing  aloud: 


82  Missy 

Work  it  in  gold  and  silver  grapes, 
In  leaves  and  silver  fleurs-de-lys  .  .  . 

Raise  me  a  dais  of  silk  and  down; 

Hang  it  with  vair  and  purple  dyes  .  .  . 

She  was  idly  wondering  what  a  "vair"  might  be 
when  her  dreams  were  crashed  into  by  mother's  re- 
proving voice:  "Missy,  what  are  you  doing?  If 
you  don't  get  right  down  to  practicing,  there'll  be 
no  more  parties!" 

Abashed,  Missy  made  her  fingers  behave,  but  not 
her  heart.  It  was  singing  a  tune  far  out  of  harmony 
with  chromatic  exercises,  and  she  was  glad  her  moth- 
er could  not  hear. 

The  tune  kept  right  on  throughout  dinner.  Dur- 
ing the  meal  she  was  called  to  the  telephone,  and  at 
the  other  end  was  Raymond;  he  wanted  her  to  save 
him  the  first  dance  that  evening.  What  rapture — 
this  was  what  happened  to  the  beautiful  belles  you 
read  about! 

After  dinner  mother  and  Aunt  Nettie  went  to  call 
upon  some  ladies  they  hoped  wouldn't  be  at  home 
— what  funny  things  grown-ups  do!  The  baby  was 
taking  his  nap,  and  Missy  had  a  delicious  long  time 
ahead  in  which  to  be  utterly  alone. 

She  took  the  library  book  of  poems  and  a  book  of 
her  father's  out  to  the  summerhouse.  First  she 
opened  the  book  of  her  father's.  It  was  a  transla- 
tion of  a  Russian  book,  very  deep  and  moving  and 
sad  and  incomprehensible.  A  perfectly  fascinating 
book!  It  always  filled  her  with  vague,  undefinable 
emotions.  She  read: 


Like  a  Singing  Bird  83 

"O  youth,  youth!  Thou  carest  for  nothing:  thou 
possessest,  as  it  were,  all  the  treasures  of  the  uni- 
verse; even  sorrow  comforts  thee,  even  melancholy 
becomes  thee;  thou  art  self-confident  and  audacious; 
thou  sayest:  'I  alone  live — behold!*  But  the  days 
speed  on  and  vanish  without  a  trace  and  without 
reckoning,  and  everything  vanishes  in  thee,  like  wax 
in  the  sun,  like  snow.  .  .  ." 

Missy  felt  sublime  sadness  resounding  through 
her  soul.  It  was  intolerable  that  days  should  speed 
by  irrevocably  and  vanish,  like  wax  in  the  sun,  like 
snow.  She  sighed.  But  even  as  she  sighed  the  feel- 
ing of  sadness  began  to  slip  away.  So  she  turned  to 
the  poem  discovered  last  night,  and  read  it  over 
happily. 

The  title,  "A  Birthday,"  made  her  feel  that  Ray- 
mond Bonner  was  somehow  connected  with  it.  This 
was  his  birthday — and  that  brought  her  thoughts 
back  definitely  to  the  party.  Mother  had  said  that 
presents  were  not  expected,  that  they  were  getting 
too  big  to  exchange  little  presents,  yet, she  would 
have  liked  to  carry  him  some  little  token.  The  ram- 
blers and  honeysuckle  above  her  head  sniffed  at  her 
in  fragrant  suggestion — why  couldn't  she  just  take 
him  some  flowers? 

Acting  on  the  impulse,  Missy  jumped  up  and  be- 
gan breaking  off  the  loveliest  blooms.  But  after  she 
had  gathered  a  big  bunch  a  swift  wave  of  self-con- 
sciousness swept  over  her.  What  would  they  say  at 
the  house?  Would  they  let  her  take  them?  Would 


84  Missy 

they  understand?  And  a  strong  distaste  for  their 
inevitable  questions,  for  the  explanations  which  she 
could  not  explain  definitely  even  to  herself,  prompt- 
ed her  not  to  carry  the  bouquet  to  the  house.  In- 
stead she  ran,  got  a  pitcher  of  water,  carried  it  back 
to  the  summerhouse  and  left  the  flowers  temporarily 
there,  hoping  to  figure  out  ways  and  means  later. 

At  the  house  she  discovered  that  the  baby  was 
awake,  so  she  had  to  hurry  back  to  take  care  of 
him.  She  always  loved  to  do  that;  she  didn't  mind 
that  a  desire  to  dress  up  in  her  party  attire  had  just 
struck  her,  for  the  baby  always  entered  into  the 
spirit  of  her  performances.  While  she  was  fastening 
up  the  pink  dotted  mull,  Poppy  walked  inquisitively 
in  and  sat  down  to  oversee  this  special,  important 
event.  Missy  succeeded  with  the  greatest  difficulty 
in  adjusting  the  brocaded  sash  to  her  satisfaction. 
She  regretted  her  unwaved  hair,  but  mother  was  go- 
ing to  crimp  it  herself  in  the  evening.  The  straight, 
everyday  coiffure  marred  the  picture  in  the  mirror, 
yet,  aided  by  her  imagination,  it  was  pleasing.  She 
stood  with  arms  extended  in  a  languid,  graceful  pose, 
her  head  thrown  back,  gazing  with  half-closed  eyes 
at  something  far,  far  beyond  her  own  eyes  m  the 
glass. 

Then  suddenly  she  began  to  dance.  She  danced 
with  her  feet,  her  arms,  her  hands,  her  soul.  She 
felt  within  her  the  grace  of  stately  beauties,  the 
heartbeat  of  dew-jewelled  fairies,  the  longings  of  un- 
trammelled butterflies — dancing,  she  could  have 
flown  up  to  heaven  at  that  moment! 


Like  a  Singing  Bird  85 

A  gurgle  of  sound  interrupted  her;  it  was  the  baby. 

"Do  you  like  me,  baby?"  she  cried.  "Am  I  beau- 
tiful, baby?" 

Baby,  now,  could  talk  quite  presentably  in  the 
language  of  grown-ups.  But  in  addition  he  knew  all 
kinds  of  wise,  unintelligible  words.  Missy  knew  that 
they  were  wise,  even  though  she  could  not  under- 
stand their  meaning,  and  she  was  glad  the  baby 
chose,  this  time,  to  answer  in  that  secret  jargon. 

She  kissed  the  baby  and,  in  return,  the  baby 
smiled  his  secret  smile.  Missy  was  sure  that  Poppy 
then  smiled  too,  a  secret  smile;  so  she  kissed  Poppy 
also.  How  wonderful,  how  mysterious,  were  the 
smiles  of  baby  and  Poppy !  What  unknown  thoughts 
produced  them? 

At  this  point  her  cogitations  were  interrupted  and 
her  playacting  spoiled  by  the  unexpected  return  of 
mother  and  Aunt  Nettie.  It  seemed  that  certain  of 
the  ladies  had  obligingly  been  "out." 

"What  in  the  world  are  you  doing,  Missy?"  asked 
mother. 

Missy  suddenly  felt  herself  a  very  foolish-appear- 
ing object  in  her  party  finery.  She  tried  to  make  an 
answer,  but  the  right  words  were  difficult  to  find. 

"Party!"  said  Aunt  Nettie  significantly. 

Missy,  still  standing  in  mute  embarrassment, 
couldn't  have  explained  how  it  was  not  the  party 
entirely. 

Mother  did  not  scold  her  for  dressing  up. 

"Better  get  those  things  off,  dear,"  she  said  kind- 
ly, "and  come  in  and  let  me  curl  your  hair.  I'd 


86  Missy 

better  do  it  before  supper,  before  the  baby  gets 
cross." 

The  crimped  coiffure  was  an  immense  success; 
even  in  her  middy  blouse  Missy  felt  transformed. 
She  could  have  kissed  herself  in  the  glass! 

"Do  you  think  I  look  pretty,  mother?"  she  asked. 

"You  mustn't  think  of  such  things,  dear."  But, 
as  mother  stooped  to  readjust  a  waving  lock,  her 
fingers  felt  marvellously  tender  to  Missy's  forehead. 

Evening  arrived  with  a  sunset  of  grandeur  and 
glory.  It  made  everything  look  as  beautiful  as  it 
should  look  on  the  occasion  of  a  festival.  The 
beautiful  and  festive  aspect  of  the  world  without, 
and  of  her  heart  within,  made  it  difficult  to  eat 
supper.  And  after  supper  it  was  hard  to  breathe 
naturally,  to  control  her  nervous  fingers  as  she 
dressed. 

At  last,  with  the  help  of  mother  and  Aunt  Nettie, 
her  toilet  was  finished:  the  pink-silk  stockings  and 
slippers  shimmering  beneaththe  lengthened pinkmull; 
the  brocaded  pink  ribbon  now  become  a  huge,  pink- 
winged  butterfly;  and,  mother's  last  touch,  a  pink 
rosebud  holding  a  tendril — a  curling  tendril — 
artfully  above  the  left  ear!  Missy  felt  a  stranger  to 
herself  as,  like  some  gracious  belle  and  fairy  princess 
and  airy  butterfly  all  compounded  into  one,  she 
walked — no,  floated  down  the  stairs. 

"Well!"  exclaimed  father,  "behold  the  Queen  of 
the  Ball!" 

But  Missy  did  not  mind  his  bantering  tone.   The 


Like  a  Singing  Bird  87 

expression  of  his  eyes  told  her  that  he  thought  she 
looked  pretty. 

Presently  Mrs.  Allen  and  Kitty,  in  the  Aliens' 
surrey,  stopped  by  for  her.  With  them  was  a  boy 
she  had  never  seen  before,  a  tall,  dark  boy  in  a  blue- 
grey  braided  coat  and  white  duck  trousers — a 
military  cadet! 

He  was  introduced  as  Kitty's  cousin,  Jim  Henley. 
Missy  had  heard  about  this  Cousin  Jim  who  was  going 
to  visit  Cherry  vale  some  time  during  the  summer; 
he  had  arrived  rather  unexpectedly  that  day. 

Kitty  herself — in  pink  dotted  mull,  of  course — 
was  looking  rather  wan.  Mrs.  Allen  explained  she 
had  eaten  too  much  of  the  candy  Cousin  Jim  had 
brought  her. 

Cousin  Jim,  with  creaking  new  shoes,  leaped 
down  to  help  Missy  in.  She  had  received  her 
mother's  last  admonition,  her  father's  last  banter, 
Aunt  Nettie's  last  anxious  peck  at  her  sash,  and 
was  just  lifting  her  foot  to  the  surrey  step  when 
suddenly  she  said:  "Oh!" 

"What  is  it?"  asked  mother.  "Forgotten  some- 
thing?" 

Missy  had  forgotten  something.  But  how,  with 
mother's  inquiring  eyes  upon  her,  and  father's  and 
Aunt  Nettie's  and  Mrs.  Allen's  and  Kitty's  and 
Cousin  Jim's  inquiring  eyes  upon  her,  could  she 
mention  Raymond's  bouquet  in  the  summerhouser 
How  could  she  get  them?  What  should  she  say? 
And  what  would  they  think? 


88  Missy 

"No,"  she  answered  hesitantly.     "I  guess  not." 

But  the  bright  shining  of  her  pleasure  was  a  little 
dimmed.  She  could  not  forget  those  flowers  wait- 
ing, waiting  there  in  the  summerhouse.  She  worried 
more  about  them,  so  pitifully  abandoned,  than  she 
did  about  Raymond's  having  to  go  without  a  re- 
membrance. 

Missy  sat  in  the  back  seat  with  Mrs.  Allen,  Kitty 
in  front  with  her  cousin.  Now  and  then  he  threw 
a  remark  over  his  shoulder,  and  smiled.  He  had 
beautiful  white  teeth  which  gleamed  out  of  his  dark- 
skinned  face,  and  he  seemed  very  nice.  But  he 
wasn't  as  handsome  as  Raymond,  nor  as  nice — 
even  if  he  did  wear  a  uniform. 

When  they  reached  the  Bonners  they  saw  it  all 
illumined  for  the  party.  The  Bonners'  house  was 
big  and  square  with  a  porch  running  round  three 
sides,  the  most  imposing  house  in  Cherryvale. 
Already  strings  of  lanterns  were  lighted  on  the  lawn, 
blue  and  red  and  yellow  orbs.  The  lights  made  the 
trees  and  shrubs  seem  shadowy  and  remote,  mys- 
terious creatures  awhisper  over  their  own  business. 

Not  yet  had  many  guests  arrived,  but  almost 
immediately  they  appeared  in  such  droves  that  it 
seemed  they  must  have  come  up  miraculously 
through  the  floor.  The  folding  camp  chairs  which 
lined  the  parlours  and  porches  (the  rented  chairs 
always  seen  at  Cherryvale  parties  and  funerals) 
were  one  moment  starkly  exposed  and  the  next 
moment  hidden  by  light-hued  skirts  and  by  stiffly 
held,  Sunday-trousered  dark  legs.  For  a  while 


Like  a  Singing  Bird  89 

that  stiffness  which  inevitably  introduces  a  formal 
gathering  of  youngsters  held  them  unnaturally 
bound.  But  just  as  inevitably  it  wore  away,  and 
by  the  time  the  folding  chairs  were  drawn  up  round 
the  little  table  where  "hearts"  were  to  be  played, 
voices  were  babbling,  and  laughter  was  to  be  heard 
everywhere  for  no  reason  at  all. 

At  Missy's  table  sat  Raymond  Bonner,  looking 
handsomer  than  ever  with  his  golden  hair  and  his 
eyes  like  black  velvet  pansies.  There  was  another  boy 
who  didn't  count;  and  then  there  was  the  most 
striking  creature  Missy  had  ever  seen.  She  was  a 
city  girl  visiting  in  town,  an  older,  tall,  red-haired  girl, 
with  languishing,  long-lashed  eyes.  She  wore  a  red 
chiffon  dress,  lower  cut  than  was  worn  in  Cherryvale, 
which  looked  like  a  picture  in  a  fashion  magazine. 
But  it  was  not  her  chic  alone  that  made  her  so  strik- 
ing. It  was  her  manner.  Missy  was  not  sure  that 
she  knew  what  "sophisticated"  meant,  but  she  de- 
cided that  the  visiting  girl's  air  of  self-possession,  of 
calm,  almost  superior  assurance,  denoted  sophistica- 
tion. How  eloquent  was  that  languid  way  of  using 
her  fan! 

In  this  languishing-eyed  presence  she  herself  did 
not  feel  at  her  best;  nor  was  she  made  happier  by 
the  way  Raymond  couldn't  keep  his  eyes  off  the 
visitor.  She  played  her  hand  badly,  so  that  Ray- 
mond and  his  alluring  partner  "progressed"  to  the 
higher  table  while  she  remained  with  the  boy  who 
didn't  count.  But,  as  luck  would  have  it,  to  take 
the  empty  places,  from  the  head  table,  vanquished, 


90  Missy 

came  Cousin  Jim  and  his  partner.  Jim  now  played 
opposite  her,  and  laughed  over  his  "dumbness"  at 
the  game. 

"I  feel  sorry  for  you!"  he  told  Missy.  "I'm  a 
regular  dub  at  this  game!" 

"I  guess  I'm  a  'dub'  too."  It  was  impossible 
not  to  smile  back  at  that  engaging  flash  of  white 
teeth  in  the  dark  face. 

This  time,  however,  neither  of  them  proved 
"dubs."  Together  they  "progressed"  to  the 
next  higher  table.  Cousin  Jim  assured  her  it  was  all 
due  to  her  skill.  She  almost  thought  that,  perhaps, 
she  was  skillful  at  "hearts,"  and  for  the  first  time 
she  liked  the  silly  game. 

Eventually  came  time  for  the  prizes — and  then 
dancing.  Dancing  Missy  liked  tremendously.  Ray- 
mond claimed  her  for  the  first  waltz.  Missy  won- 
dered, a  little  wistfully,  whether  now  he  mightn't  be 
regretting  that  pre-engagement,  whether  he  wouldn't 
rather  dance  it  with  the  languishing-eyed  girl  he 
was  following  about. 

But  as  soon  as  the  violin  and  piano,  back  near  the 
library  window,  began  to  play,  Raymond  came 
straight  to  Missy  and  made  his  charming  bow. 
They  danced  through  the  two  parlours  and  then  out 
to  the  porch  and  round  its  full  length;  the  music 
carried  beautifully  through  the  open  windows;  it 
was  heavenly  dancing  outdoors  like  that.  Too  soon 
it  was  over. 

"Will  you  excuse  me?"  Raymond  asked  in  his 


Like  a  Singing  Bird  91 

polite  way.  "Mother  wants  to  see  me  about  some- 
thing. I  hate  to  run  away,  but — " 

Scarcely  had  he  gone  when  Mrs.  Allen,  with  Jim 
in  tow,  came  hurrying  up. 

"Oh,  Missy!  I've  been  looking  for  you  every- 
where. Kitty's  awfully  sick.  She  was  helping  with 
the  refreshments  and  got  hold  of  some  pickles.  And 
on  top  of  all  that  candy — " 

"Oh!"  commiserated  Missy. 

"I've  got  to  get  her  home  at  once,"  Mrs.  Allen 
went  on.  "I  hate  to  take  you  away  just  when 
your  good  time's  beginning,  but — " 

"Why  does  she  have  to  go?"  Jim  broke  in.  "I 
can  take  you  and  Kitty  home,  and  then  come  back, 
and  take  her  home  after  the  party's  over."  He 
gave  a  little  laugh.  "You  see  that  gives  me  an 
excuse  to  see  the  party  through  myself!" 

Mrs.  Allen  eyed  Missy  a  little  dubiously. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Allen,  couldn't  I?" 

"I  don't  know — I  said  I'd  bring  you  home  myself." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Allen !  Please! "  Missy's  eyes  pleaded 
even  more  than  her  voice. 

"Well,  I  don't  see  why  not,"  decided  Kitty's 
mother,  anxious  to  return  to  her  own  daughter. 
"Jim  will  take  good  care  of  you,  and  Mrs.  Bonner 
will  send  you  all  home  early." 

WTien  Mrs.  Allen,  accompanied  by  her  nephew, 
had  hurried  away,  Missy  had  an  impulse  to  wander 
alone,  for  a  moment,  out  into  the  deliciously  alluring 
night.  She  loved  the  night  always,  but  just  now  it 


92  Missy 

looked  indescribably  beautiful.  The  grounds  were 
deserted,  but  the  lanterns,  quivering  in  the  breeze, 
seemed  to  be  huge  live  glow-worms  suspended  up 
there  in  the  dark.  It  was  enchantment.  Stepping 
lightly,  holding  her  breath,  sniffing  at  unseen'  scents, 
hearing  laughter  and  dance  music  from  far  away  as 
if  in  another  world,  she  penetrated  farther  and 
farther  into  the  shadows.  An  orange-coloured  moon 
was  pushing  its  way  over  the  horizon,  so  close  she 
could  surely  reach  out  her  hands  and  touch  it! 

And  then,  too  near  to  belong  to  any  other  world, 
and  quite  distinctly,  she  heard  a  voice  beyond  the 
rose  arbour: 

"Oh,  yes!  Words  sound  well!  But  the  fact  re- 
mains you  didn't  ask  me  for  the  first  dance." 

Missy  knew  that  drawling  yet  strangely  assured 
voice.  Almost,  with  its  tones,  she  could  see  the 
languorously  uplifted  eyes,  the  provoking  little 
gesture  of  fan  at  lips.  Before  she  could  move, 
whether  to  advance  or  to  flee,  Raymond  replied : 

"I  wanted  to  ask  you — you  know  I  wanted  to  ask 
you!" 

"Oh,  yes,  you  did!"  replied  the  visiting  girl 
ironically. 

"I  did!"  protested  Raymond. 

"Well,  why  didn't  you  then?" 

"I'd  already  asked  somebody  else.   I  couldnt!" 

And  then  the  visiting  girl  laughed  strangely.  Missy 
knew  she  knew  with  whom  Raymond  had  danced  that 
first  dance.  Why  did  she  laugh?  And  Raymond — 
ohy  oh! 


Like  a  Singing  Bird  93 

She  had  seemed  to  grow  rooted  to  the  ground, 
unable  to  get  away;  her  heart,  her  breathing,  seemed 
to  petrify  too;  they  hurt  her.  Why  had  Raymond 
danced  with  her  if  he  didn't  want  to?  And  why, 
why  did  that  girl  laugh  ?  She  suddenly  felt  that  she 
must  let  them  know  that  she  heard  them,  that  she 
must  ask  why!  And,  in  order  not  to  exclaim  the 
question  against  her  will,  she  covered  her  mouth  with 
both  hands,  and  crept  silently  away  from  the  rose 
arbour. 

Without  any  definite  purpose,  borne  along  by  an 
inner  whirlwind  of  suppressed  sobs  and  utter  despair, 
Missy  finally  found  herself  nearer  the  entrance  gate. 
Fortunately  there  was  nobody  to  see  her;  everyone — 
except  those  two — was  back  up  there  in  the  glare 
and  noise,  laughing  and  dancing.  Laughing  and 
dancing — oh,  oh!  What  ages  ago  it  seemed  when  she 
too  had  laughed  and  danced! 

Oh,  why  hadn't  she  gone  home  with  Mrs.  Allen 
and  Kitty  before  her  silly  pleasure  had  turned  to 
anguish?  But,  of  course,  that  was  what  life  was: 
pain  crowding  elbows  with  pleasure  always — she 
had  read  that  somewhere.  She  was  just  inevitably 
living  Life. 

Consoled  a  trifle  by  this  reflecton  and  by  a  certain 
note  of  sublimity  in  her  experience,  Missy  leaned 
against  the  gatepost  upon  which  a  lantern  was 
blinking  its  last  shred  of  life,  and  gazed  at  the  slow- 
rising,  splendid  moon. 

She  was  still  there  when  Cousin  Jim,  walking 
quickly  and  his  shoes  creaking  loudly,  returned. 


94  Missy 

"Hello!"  he  said.     "What're  you  doing  out  here?" 

"Oh,  just  watching  the  moon." 

"You're  a  funny  girl,"  he  laughed. 

"Why  am  I  funny  ? "   Her  tone  was  a  little  wistful. 

"Why,  moon-gazing  instead  of  dancing,  and  every- 
thing." ' 

"But  I  like  to  dance  too,"  emphasized  Missy,  as 
if  to  defend  herself  against  a  charge. 

"I'll  take  you  up  on  that.  Come  straight  in  and 
dance  the  next  dance  with  me!" 

Missy  obeyed.  And  then  she  knew  that  she  had 
met  the  Dancer  of  the  World.  At  first  she  was 
pleased  that  her  steps  fitted  his  so  well,  and  then  she 
forgot  all  about  steps  and  just  floated  along,  on  in- 
visible gauzy  wings,  unconscious  of  her  will  of 
direction,  of  his  will  of  direction.  There  was  nothing 
in  the  world  but  invisible  gauzy  wings,  which  were 
herself  and  Jim  and  the  music.  And  they  were  a 
part  of  the  music  and  the  music  was  a  part  of  them. 
It  was  divine. 

"Say,  you  can  dance!"  said  Jim  admiringly  when 
the  music  stopped. 

"I  love  to  dance." 

"I  should  say  you  might!  You  dance  better  than 
any  girl  I  ever  danced  with!" 

This,  from  a  military  uniform,  was  praise  indeed. 
Missy  blushed  and  was  moved  to  hide  her  exaltation 
under  modesty. 

"I  guess  the  reason  is  because  I  love  it  so  much. 
I  feel  as  if  it's  the  music  dancing — not  me.  Do  you 
feel  it  that  way?" 


Like  a  Singing  Bird  95 

"Never  thought  of  it  that  way,'*  answered  Jim. 
"But  I  don't  know  but  what  you're  right.  Say, 
you  are  a  funny  girl,  aren't  you?" 

But  Missy  knew  that  whatever  he  meant  by  her 
being  a  "funny  girl"  he  didn't  dislike  her  for  it, 
because  he  rushed  on:  "You  must  let  me  have  a  lot 
of  dances — every  one  you  can  spare." 

After  that  everything  was  rapture.  All  the  boys 
liked  to  dance  with  Missy  because  she  was  such  a 
good  dancer,  and  Jim  kept  wanting  to  cut  in  to  get 
an  extra  dance  with  her  himself.  Somehow  even 
the  sting  of  the  visiting  girl's  laugh  and  of  Raymond's 
defection  seemed  to  have  subsided  into  triviality. 
And  when  Raymond  came  up  to  ask  for  a  dance  she 
experienced  a  new  and  pleasurable  thrill  in  telling 
him  she  was  already  engaged.  That  thrill  disturbed 
her  a  little.  Was  it  possible  that  she  was  vindictive, 
wicked?  But  when  she  saw  Jim  approaching  while 
Raymond  was  receiving  his  cong6,  she  thrilled  again, 
simultaneously  wondering  whether  she  was,  after 
all,  but  a  heartless  coquette. 

Jim  had  just  been  dancing  with  the  visiting  girl, 
so  she  asked:  "Is  Miss  Slade  a  good  dancer?" 

"Oh,  fair.     Not  in  it  with  you,  though." 

Missy  thrilled  again,  and  felt  wicked  again — 
alas,  how  pleasant  is  wickedness!  "She's  awfully 
pretty,"  vouchsafed  Missy. 

"Oh,  I  guess  so" — indifferently. 

Yet  another  thrill. 

They  took  refreshments  together,  Jim  going  to 


96  Missy 

get  her  a  second  glass  of  lemonade  and  waiting 
upon  her  with  devotion.  Then  came  the  time  to  go 
home.  Missy  could  not  hold  back  a  certain  sense 
of  triumph  as,  after  thanking  Raymond  for  a  glorious 
time,  she  started  off,  under  his  inquisitive  eye,  arm 
in  arm  with  Jim. 

That  unwonted  arm-in-arm  business  confused 
Missy  a  good  deal.  She  had  an  idea  it  was  the  proper 
thing  when  one  is  being  escorted  home,  and  had  put 
her  arm  in  his  as  a  matter  of  course,  but  before  they 
had  reached  the  gate  she  was  acutely  conscious  of 
the  touch  of  her  arm  on  his.  To  make  matters 
worse,  a  curious  wave  of  embarrassment  was  creep- 
ing over  her;  she  couldn't  think  of  anything  to  say, 
and  they  had  walked  nearly  a  block  down  moon- 
flooded  Silver  Street,  with  no  sound  but  Jim's  creak- 
ing shoes,  before  she  got  out:  "How  do  you  like 
Cherryvale,  Mr.  Henley?" 

"Looks  good  to  me,"  he  responded. 

Then  silence  again,  save  for  Jim's  shoes.  Missy 
racked  her  brains.  What  do  you  say  to  boys  who 
don't  know  the  same  people  and  affairs  you  do? 
Back  there  at  the  party  things  had  gone  easily,  but 
they  were  playing  cards  or  dancing  or  eating;  there 
had  been  no  need  for  tete-a-tete  conversation. 
How  do  you  talk  to  people  you  don't  know? 

She  liked  Jim,  but  the  need  to  make  talk  was 
spoiling  everything.  She  moved  along  beside  his 
creaking  shoes  as  in  a  nightmare,  and,  as  she  felt 
every  atom  of  her  freezing  to  stupidity,  she  des- 


Like  a  Singing  Bird  97 

perately  forced  her  voice:  "What  a  beautiful  night 
it  is!" 

"Yes,  it's  great.'* 

Missy  sent  him   a  sidelong    glance.     He    didn't 
look  exactly  happy  either.     Did  he  feel  awkward 
too? 
.  Creak!  creak!  creak!  said  the  shoes. 

"Listen  to  those  shoes — never  heard  'em  squeak 
like  that  before,"  he  muttered  apologetically. 

Missy,  striving  for  a  proper  answer  and  finding 
none,  kept  on  moving  through  that  feeling  of  night- 
mare. What  was  the  matter  with  her  tongue,  her 
brain?  Was  it  because  she  didn't  know  Jim  well 
enough  to  talk  to  him?  Surely  not,  for  she  had  met 
strange  boys  before  and  not  felt  like  this.  Was  it 
because  it  was  night?  Did  you  always  feel  like  this 
when  you  were  all  dressed  up  and  going  home  from 
an  evening  party? 

Creak!  creak!  said  the  shoes. 

Another  block  lay  behind  them. 

Missy,  fighting  that  sensation  of  stupidity,  in 
anguished  resolution  spoke  again:  "Just  look  at  the 
moon — how  big  it  is!" 

Jim  followed  her  upward  glance.  "Yes,  it's 
great,"  he  agreed. 

Creak!  creak!  said  the  shoes. 

A  heavy,  regularly  punctuated  pause.  "Don't 
you  love  moonlight  nights?"  persisted  Missy. 

"Yes — when  my  shoes  don't  squeak."  He  tried 
to  laugh. 

Missy  tried  to  laugh  too. 


98  Missy 

Creak!  creak!  said  the  shoes. 

Another  block  lay  behind  them. 

"Moonlight  always  makes  me  feel — " 

She  paused.  What  was  it  moonlight  always  made 
her  feel?  Hardly  hearing  what  she  was  saying,  she 
made  herself  reiterate  banalities  about  the  moon. 
Her  mind  flew  upward  to  the  moon — Jim's  downward 
to  his  squeaking  shoes.  She  lived  at  the  other  end 
of  town  from  Raymond  Bonner's  house,  and  the 
long  walk  was  made  up  of  endless  intermittent 
perorations  on  the  moon,  on  squeaking  shoes.  But 
the  song  of  the  shoes  never  ceased.  Louder  and  loud- 
er it  waxed.  It  crashed  into  the  innermost  fibres 
of  her  frame,  completely  deafened  her  mental  pro- 
cesses. Never  would  she  forget  it:  creak-creak- 
creak-creak! 

And  the  moon,  usually  so  kind  and  gentle,  grinned 
down  derisively. 

At  last,  after  eons,  they  reached  the  corner  of 
her  own  yard.  How  unchanged,  how  natural 
everything  looked  here!  Over  there,  across  the 
stretch  of  white  moonlight,  sat  the  summerhouse, 
symbol  of  peace  and  every  day,  cloaked  in  its 
fragrant  ramblers. 

Ramblers!  A  sudden  remembrance  darted  through 
Missy's  perturbed  brain.  Her  poor  flowers — were 
they  still  out  there?  She  must  carry  them  into  the 
house  with  her!  On  the  impulse,  without  pausing 
to  reflect  that  her  action  might  look  queer,  she 
exclaimed:  "Wait  a  minute!"  and  ran  fleetly  across 
the  moonlit  yard.  In  a  second  she  had  the  bouquet 


Like  a  Singing  Bird  99 

out  of  the  pitcher  and  was  back  again  beside  him, 
breathless. 

"I  left  them  out  there,"  she  said.  "I — I  forgot 
them.  And  I  didn't  want  to  leave  them  out  there 
all  night." 

Jim  bent  down  and  sniffed  at  the  roses.  "They 
smell  awfully  sweet,  don't  they?"  he  said. 

Suddenly,  without  premeditation,  Missy  extended 
them  to  him.  "You  may  have  them,"  she  offered. 

"7?"  He  received  them  awkwardly.  "That's 
awfully  sweet  of  you.  Say,  you  are  sweet,  aren't 
you?" 

"You  may  have  them  if  you  want  them,"  she 
repeated. 

Jim,  still  holding  the  bunch  awkwardly,  had  an 
inspiration. 

"  I  do  want  them.  And  now,  if  they're  really  mine, 
I  want  to  do  with  them  what  I'd  like  most  to  do 
with  them.  May  I?" 

"Why,  of  course." 

"I'd  like  to  give  them  to  the  girl  who  ought  to 
have  flowers  more  than  any  girl  I  know.  I'd  like 
to  give  them  to  you!" 

He  smiled  at  her  daringly. 

"Oh!"  breathed  Missy.   How  poetical  he  was! 

"But,"  he  stipulated,  "on  one  condition.  I  de- 
mand one  rose  for  myself.  And  you  must  put  it  in 
my  buttonhole  for  me." 

With  trembling  fingers  Missy  fixed  the  rose  in  place. 

They  walked  on  up  to  the  gate. 


ioo  Missy 

Jim  said:  "In  our  school  town  the  girls  are  all 
crazy  for  brass  buttons.  They  make  hatpins  and 
things.  If  you'd  like  a  button,  I'd  like  to  give  you 
one — off  my  sleeve." 

"Wouldn't  it  spoil  your  sleeve?"  she  asked 
tremulously. 

"Oh,  I  can  get  more" — somewhat  airily.  "Of 
course  we  have  to  do  extra  guard  mount  and  things 
for  punishment.  But  that's  part  of  the  game,  and 
no  fellow  minds  if  he's  giving  buttons  to  somebody 
he  likes" 

Missy  wasn't  exactly  sure  she  knew  what  "subtle" 
meant,  but  she  felt  that  Jim  was  being  subtle.  Oh, 
the  romance  of  it!  To  give  her  a  brass  button  he 
was  willing  to  suffer  punishment.  He  was  like  a  knight 
of  old! 

As  Jim  was  severing  the  button  with  his  pen- 
knife, Missy,  chancing  to  glance  upward,  noted  that 
the  curtain  of  an  upstairs  window  was  being  held  back 
by  an  invisible  hand.  That  was  her  mother's  window. 

"I  must  go  in  now,"  she  said  hurriedly.  "Moth- 
er's waiting  up  for  me." 

"Well  I  guess  I'll  see  you  soon.  You're  up  at 
Kitty's  a  lot,  aren't  you?" 

"Yes,"  she  murmured,  one  eye  on  the  upstairs 
window.  So  many  things  she  had  to  say  now.  A 
little  while  ago  she  hadn't  been  able  to  talk.  Now, 
for  no  apparent  reason,  there  was  much  to  say,  yet 
no  time  to  say  it.  How  queer  Life  was ! 

"To-morrow,  I  expect,"  she  hurried  on.  "Good 
night,  Mr.  Henley." 


Like  a  Singing  Bird  101 

"Good  night — Missy."  With  his  daring,  gleaming 
smile. 

Inside  the  hall  door,  mother,  wrapper-clad,  met 
her  disapprovingly.  "Missy,  where  in  the  world  did 
you  get  all  those  flowers?" 

"Ji — Kitty's  cousin  gave  them  to  me." 

"For  the  land's  sake!"  It  required  a  moment  for 
mother  to  find  further  words.  Then  she  continued 
accusingly:  "I  thought  you  were  to  come  home  with 
Mrs.  Allen  and  Kitty." 

"Kitty  got  sick,  and  her  mother  had  to  take  her 
home." 

"Why  didn't  you  come  with  them?" 

"Oh,  mother!  I  was  having  such  a  good  time!" 
For  the  minute  Missy  had  forgotten  there  had  been 
a  shred  of  anything  but  "good  time"  in  the  whole 
glorious  evening.  "And  Mrs.  Allen  said  I  might 
stay  and  come  home  with  Jim  and — 

"That  will  do,"  cut  in  mother  severely.  "You've 
taken  advantage  of  me,  Missy.  And  don't  let  me 
hear  evening  party  from  you  again  this  summer!" 

The  import  of  this  dreadful  dictum  did  not  pen- 
etrate fully  to  Missy's  consciousness.  She  was  too 
confused  in  her  emotions,  just  then,  to  think  clearly 
of  anything. 

"Go  up  to  bed,"  said  mother. 

"May  I  put  my  flowers  in  water  first?" 

"Yes,  but  be  quick  about  it." 

Missy  would  have  liked  to  carry  the  flowers  up 
to  her  own  room,  to  sleep  there  beside  her  while 
she  slept,  but  mother  wouldn't  understand  and  there 


102  Missy 

would  be  questions  which  she  didn't  know  how  to 
answer. 

Mother  was  offended  with  her.  Dimly  she  felt 
unhappy  about  that,  but  she  was  too  happy  to  be 
definitely  unhappy.  Anyway,  mother  followed  to 
unfasten  her  dress,  to  help  take  down  her  hair,  to 
plait  the  mouse-coloured  braids.  She  wanted  to  be 
alone,  yet  she  liked  the  touch  of  mother's  hands, 
unusually  gentle  and  tender.  Why  was  mother 
gentle  and  tender  with  her  when  she  was  offended? 

At  last  mother  kissed  her  good  night,  and  she  was 
alone  in  her  little  bed.  It  was  hard  to  get  to  sleep. 
What  an  eventful  party  it  had  been!  Since  supper 
time  she  seemed  to  have  lived  years  and  years.  She 
had  been  a  success  even  though  Raymond  Bonner 
had  said — that.  Anyway,  Jim  was  a  better  dancer 
than  Raymond,  and  handsomer  and  nicer — besides 
the  uniform.  He  was  more  poetical  too — much  more. 
What  was  it  he  had  said  about  liking  her?  .  .  . 
better  dancer  than  any  other.  .  .  .  Funny  she 
should  feel  so  happy  after  Raymond  .  .  .  Maybe 
she  was  just  a  vain,  inconstant,  coquettish  .  .  . 

She  strove  to  focus  on  the  possibility  of  her 
frailty.  She  turned  her  face  to  the  window.  Through 
the  lace  curtains  shone  the  moonlight,'  the  gleaming 
path  along  which  she  had  so  often  flown  out  to  be  a 
fairy.  But  to-night  she  didn't  wish  to  be  a  fairy; 
just  to  be  herself  .  .  . 

i   The  moonlight  flowed  in  and  engulfed  her,  a  great, 
eternal,  golden-white  mystery.     And  its  mystery  be- 


Like  a  Singing  Bird  103 

came  her  mystery.  She  was  the  mystery  of  the 
moon,  of  the  universe,  of  Life.  And  the  tune  in  her 
heart,  which  could  take  on  so  many  bewildering 
variations,  became  the  Chant  of  Mystery.  How  in- 
teresting, how  tremendously,  ineffably  interesting 
was  Life!  She  slept. 


IV 

Missy  Tackles  Romance 

"JVyTELISSA  was  out  in  the  summer-house,  reading; 
now  and  then  lifting  her  eyes  from  the  big 
book  on  her  lap  to  watch  the  baby  at  play.  With  a 
pail  of  sand,  a  broken  lead-pencil  and  several  bits  of 
twig,  the  baby  had  concocted  an  engrossing  game. 
Melissa  smiled  indulgently  at  his  absurd  absorption; 
while  the  baby,  looking  up,  smiled  back  as  one  who 
would  say:  "What  a  stupid  game  reading  is  to 
waste  your  time  with!'* 

For  the  standpoint  of  three-years-old  is  quite  dif- 
ferent from  that  of  fourteen-going-on-fifteen.  Missy 
now  felt  almost  grown-up;  it  had  been  eons  since  she 
was  a  baby,  and  three;  even  thirteen  lay  back  across 
a  chasm  so  wide  her  thoughts  rarely  tried  to  bridge 
it.  Besides,  her  thoughts  were  kept  too  busy  with 
the  present.  Every  day  the  world  was  presenting  it- 
self as  a  more  bewitching  place.  Cherryvale  had  al- 
ways been  a  thrilling  place  to  live  in;  but  this  was 
the  summer  which,  surely,  would  ever  stand  out  in 
italics  in  her  mind.  For,  this  summer,  she  had  come 
really  to  know  Romance. 

Her  more  intimate  acquaintance  with  this  en- 
chanting phenomenon  had  begun  in  May,  the  last 

104 


Missy  Tackles  Romance  105 

month  of  school,  when  she  learned  that  Miss  Smith, 
her  Algebra  teacher,  received  a  letter  every  day 
from  an  army  officer.  An  army  officer! — and  a  let- 
ter every  day!  And  she  knew  Miss  Smith  very  well, 
indeed!  Ecstasy!  Miss  Smith,  who  looked  too  pret- 
ty to  know  so  much  about  Algebra,  made  an  ador- 
able heroine  of  Romance. 

But  she  was  not  more  adorable-looking  than  Aunt 
Isabel.  Aunt  Isabel  was  Uncle  Charlie's  wife,  and 
lived  in  Pleasanton;  Missy  was  going  to  Pleasanton 
in  just  three  days,  now,  and  every  time  she  thought 
of  the  visit,  she  felt  delicious  little  tremors  of  antici- 
pation. What  an  experience  that  would  be! 

For  father  and  mother  and  grandpa  and  grandma 
and  all  the  other  family  grown-ups  admitted  that 
Uncle  Charlie's  marriage  to  Aunt  Isabel  was  roman- 
tic. Uncle  Charlie  had  been  forty-three — very,  very 
old,  even  older  than  father — and  a  "confirmed  bach- 
elor" when,  a  year  ago  last  summer,  he  had  married 
Aunt  Isabel.  Aunt  Isabel  was  much  younger,  only 
twenty;  that  was  what  made  the  marriage  romantic. 

Like  Miss  Smith,  Aunt  Isabel  had  big  violet  eyes 
and  curly  golden  hair.  Most  heroines  seemed  to  be 
like  that.  The  reflection  saddened  Missy.  Her  own 
eyes  were  grey  instead  of  violet,  her  hair  straight 
and  mouse-coloured  instead  of  wavy  and  golden. 

Even  La  Beale  Isoud  was  a  blonde,  and  La  Beale 
Isoud,  as  she  had  recently  discovered,  was  one  of 
the  Romantic  Queens  of  all  time.  She  knew  this 
fact  on  the  authority  of  grandpa,  who  was  enormous- 
ly wise.  Grandpa  said  that  the  beauteous  lady  was 


ic6  Missy 

a  heroine  in  all  languages,  and  her  name  was  spelled 
Iseult,  and  Yseult,  and  Isolde,  and  other  queer  ways; 
but  in  "The  Romance  of  King  Arthur"  it  was  spelled 
La  Beale  Isoud.  "The  Romance  of  King  Arthur" 
was  a  fascinating  book,  and  Missy  was  amazed  that, 
up  to  this  very  summer,  she  had  passed  by  the  rather 
ponderous  volume,  which  was  kept  on  the  top  shelf 
of  the  "secretary,"  as  uninteresting-looking.  Unin- 
teresting! 

It  was  "The  Romance  of  King  Arthur"  that,  this 
July  afternoon,  lay  open  on  Missy's  lap  while  she 
minded  the  baby  in  the  summerhouse.  Already  she 
knew  by  heart  its  "deep"  and  complicated  story, 
and,  now,  she  was  re-reading  the  part  which  told  of 
Sir  Tristram  de  Liones  and  his  ill-fated  love  for  La 
Beale  Isoud.  It  was  all  very  sad,  yet  very  beauti- 
ful. 

Sir  Tristram  was  a  "worshipful  knight"  and  a 
"harper  passing  all  other."  He  got  wounded,  and 
his  uncle,  King  Mark,  "let  purvey  a  fair  vessel,  well 
victualled,"  and  sent  him  to  Ireland  to  be  healed. 
There  the  Irish  King's  daughter,  La  Beale  Isoud, 
"the  fairest  maid  and  lady  in  the  world,"  nursed 
him  back  to  health,  while  Sir  Tristram  "learned  her 
to  harp." 

That  last  was  an  odd  expression.  In  Cherryvale 
it  would  be  considered  bad  grammar;  but,  evidently, 
grammar  rules  were  different  in  olden  times.  The 
unusual  phraseology  of  the  whole  narrative  fasci- 
nated Missy;  even  when  you  could  hardly  understand 
it,  it  was — inspiring.  Yes,  that  was  the  word.  In- 


Missy  Tackles  Romance  107 

spiring!  That  was  because  it  was  the  true  language 
of  Romance.  The  language  of  Love  .  .  .  Missy's 
thoughts  drifted  off  to  ponder  the  kind  of  language 
the  army  officer  used  to  Miss  Smith;  Uncle  Charlie 
to  Aunt  Isabel  .  .  . 

She  came  back  to  the  tale  of  La  Beale  Isoud. 

Alas!  true  love  must  ever  suffer  at  the  hands  of 
might.  For  the  harper's  uncle,  old  King  Mark  him- 
self, decided  to  marry  La  Beale  Isoud;  and  he  or- 
dered poor  Sir  Tristram  personally  to  escort  her 
from  Ireland.  And  Isoud's  mother  entrusted  to  two 
servants  a  magical  drink  which  they  should  give 
Isoud  and  King  Mark  on  their  wedding-day,  so  that 
the  married  pair  "either  should  love  the  other  the 
days  of  their  life." 

But,  Tristram  and  La  Beale  Isoud  found  that  love- 
drink!  Breathing  quickly,  Missy  read  the  fateful 
part: 

"  It  happened  so  that  they  were  thirsty,  and  it  seemed 
by  the  colour  and  the  taste  that  it  was  a  noble  wine. 
When  Sir  Tristram  took  the  flasket  in  his  hand,  and 
said,  f  Madam  Isoud,  here  is  the  best  drink  that  ever  ye 
drunk,  that  Dame  Braguaine,  your  maiden,  and  Gou- 
vernail,  my  servant,  have  kept  for  themselves*  Then 
they  laughed  (laughed — think  of  it!)  and  made  good 
cheer,  and  either  drank  to  other  freely.  And  they 
thought  never  drink  that  ever  they  drank  was  so  sweet 
nor  so  good.  But  by  that  drink  was  in  their  bodies, 
they  loved  either  other  so  well  that  never  their  love  de- 
parted for  weal  neither  for  woe"  (Think  of  that,  too !) 

Missy  gazed  at  the  accompanying  illustration:    La 


io8  Missy 

Beale  Isoud  slenderly  tall  in  her  straight  girdled 
gown  of  grey-green  velvet,  head  thrown  back  so  that 
her  filleted  golden  hair  brushed  her  shoulders,  violet 
eyes  half-closed,  and  an  "antique "-looking  metal 
goblet  clasped  in  her  two  slim  hands;  and  Sir  Tris- 
tram so  imperiously  dark  and  handsome  in  his  crim- 
son, fur-trimmed  doublet,  his  two  hands  stretched 
out  and  gripping  her  two  shoulders,  his  black  eyes 
burning  as  if  to  look  through  her  closed  lids.  What 
a  tremendous  situation!  Love  that  never  would  de- 
part for  weal  neither  for  woe ! 

Missy  sighed.  For  she  had  read  and  re-read  what 
was  the  fullness  of  their  woe.  And  she  couldn't  help 
hating  King  Mark,  even  if  he  was  Isoud's  lawful 
lord,  because  he  proved  himself  such  a  recreant  and 
false  traitor  to  true  love.  Of  course,  he  was  Isoud's 
husband;  and  Missy  lived  in  Cherry  vale,  where  con- 
ventions were  not  complicated  and  were  strictly  ad- 
hered to;  else  scandal  was  the  result.  But  she  told 
herself  that  this  situation  was  different  because  it 
was  an  unusual  kind  of  love.  They  couldn't  help 
themselves.  It  wasn't  their  fault.  It  was  the  love- 
drink  that  did  it.  Besides,  it  happened  in  the  Mid- 
dle Ages  .  .  . 

Suddenly  her  reverie  was  blasted  by  a  compelling 
disaster.  The  baby,  left  to  his  own  devices,  had 
stuck  a  twig  into  his  eye,  and  was  uttering  loud 
cries  for  attention.  Missy  remorsefully  hurried  over 
and  kissed  his  hurt.  As  if  healed  thereby,  the  baby 
abruptly  ceased  crying;  even  sent  her  a  little  waver- 
ing smile.  Missy  gazed  at  him  and  pondered :  why 


Missy  Tackles  Romance  109 

do  babies  cry  over  their  tiny  troubles,  and  so  often 
laugh  over  their  bigger  ones?  She  felt  an  immense 
yearning  over  babies — over  all  things  inexplicable. 

That  evening  after  supper,  grandpa  and  grandma 
came  over  for  a  little  while.  They  all  sat  out  on  the 
porch  and  chatted.  It  was  very  beautiful  out  on  the 
porch, — greying  twilight,  and  young  little  stars  just 
coming  into  being,  all  aquiver  as  if  frightened. 

The  talk  turned  to  Missy's  imminent  visit. 

"Aren't  you  afraid  you'll  get  homesick?"  asked 
grandma. 

It  was  Missy's  first  visit  away  from  Cherryvale 
without  her  mother.  A  year  ago  she  would  have 
dreaded  the  separation,  but  now  she  was  almost 
grown-up.  Besides,  this  very  summer,  in  Cherry- 
vale,  she  had  seen  how  for  some  reason,  a  visiting 
girl  seems  to  excite  more  attention  than  does  a  mere 
home  girl.  Missy  realized  that,  of  course,  she  wasn't 
so  "fashionable"  as  was  the  sophisticated  Miss  Slade 
from  Macon  City  who  had  so  agitated  Cherryvale, 
yet  she  was  pleased  to  try  the  experience  for  herself. 
Moreover,  the  visit  was  to  be  at  Uncle  Charlie's! 

"Oh,  no,"  answered  Missy.  "Not  with  Uncle 
Charlie  and  Aunt  Isabel.  She's  so  pretty  and  wears 
such  pretty  clothes — remember  that  grey  silk  dress 
with  grey-topped  shoes  exactly  to  match?" 

"I  think  she  has  shoes  to  match  everything,  even 
her  wrappers,"  said  grandma  rather  drily.  "Isabel's 
very  extravagant." 

"Extravagance  becomes  a  virtue  when  Isabel  wears 
the  clothes,"  commented  grandpa.  Grandpa  often 


no  Missy 

said  "deep"  things  like  that,  which  were  hard  to 
understand  exactly. 

"She  shouldn't  squander  Charlie's  money,"  in- 
sisted grandma. 

"Charlie  doesn't  seem  to  mind  it,"  put  in  mother 
in  her  gentle  way.  "He's  as  pleased  as  Punch  buy- 
ing her  pretty  things." 

"Yes — poor  Charlie!"  agreed  grandma.  "And 
there's  another  thing:  Isabel's  always  been  used  to 
so  much  attention,  I  hope  she  won't  give  poor  Charlie 
anxiety." 

Why  did  grandma  keep  calling  him  "poor"  Char- 
lie? Missy  had  always  understood  that  Uncle  Char- 
lie wasn't  poor  at  all;  he  owned  the  biggest  "general 
store"  in  Pleasanton  and  was,  in  fact,  the  "best- 
fixed  "  of  the  whole  Merriam  family. 

But,  save  for  fragments,  she  soon  lost  the  drift  of 
the  family  discussion.  She  was  absorbed  in  her  own 
trend  of  thoughts.  At  Uncle  Charlie's  she  was  sure 
of  encountering  Romance.  Living-and-breathing 
Romance.  And  only  two  days  more!  How  could 
she  wait? 

But  the  two  days  flew  by  in  a  flurry  of  mending, 
and  running  ribbons,  and  polishing  all  her  shoes  and 
wearing  old  dresses  to  keep  her  good  ones  clean,  and, 
finally,  packing.  It  was  all  so  exciting  that  only  at 
the  last  minute  just  before  the  trunk  was  shut,  did 
she  remember  to  tuck  in  "The  Romance  of  King 
Arthur." 

At  the  depot  in  Pleasanton,  Aunt  Isabel  alone 
met  her;  Uncle  Charlie  was  "indisposed."  Missy 


Missy  Tackles  Romance  in 

was  sorry  to  hear  that.  For  she  had  liked  Uncle 
Charlie  even  before  he  had  become  Romantic.  He 
was  big  and  silent  like  father  and  grandpa  and  you 
had  a  feeling  that,  like  them,  he  understood  you 
more  than  did  most  grown-ups. 

She  liked  Aunt  Isabel,  too;  she  couldn't  have 
helped  that,  because  Aunt  Isabel  was  so  radiantly 
beautiful.  Missy  loved  all  beautiful  things.  She 
loved  the  heavenly  colour  of  sunlight  through  the 
stained-glass  windows  at  church;  the  unquenchable 
blaze  of  her  nasturtium  bed  under  a  blanket  of  grey 
mist;  the  corner  street-lamp  reflecting  on  the  wet 
sidewalk;  the  smell  of  clean,  sweet  linen  sheets;  the 
sound  of  the  brass  band  practicing  at  night,  blaring 
but  unspeakably  sad  through  the  distance;  the  di- 
vine mystery  of  faint-tinted  rainbows;  trees  in  moon- 
light turned  into  great  drifts  of  fairy-white  blos- 
soms. 

And  she  loved  shining  ripples  of  golden  hair;  and 
great  blue  eyes  that  laughed  in  a  siJewise  glance 
and  then  turned  softly  pensive  in  a  second;  and  a 
sweet  high  voice  now  vivacious  and  now  falling  into 
hushed  cadences;  and  delicate  white  hands  always 
restlessly  fluttering;  and,  a  drifting,  elusive  fra- 
grance, as  of  wind-swept  petals.  .  .  . 

All  of  which  meant  that  she  loved  Aunt  Isabel 
very  much;  especially  in  the  frilly,  pastel-flowered 
organdy  she  was  wearing  to-day — an  "extravagant" 
dress,  doubtless,  but  lovely  enough  to  justify  that. 

Naturally  such  a  person  as  Aunt  Isabel  would 
make  her  home  a  beautiful  place.  It  was  a  "bunga- 


H2  Missy 

low."  Missy  had  often  regretted  that  her  own  home 
had  been  built  before  the  vogue  of  the  bungalow. 
And  now,  when  she  beheld  Aunt  Isabel's  enchant- 
ing house,  the  solid,  substantial  furnishings  left  be- 
hind in  Cherryvale  lost  all  their  savour  for  her,  even 
the  old-fashioned  "quaintness"  of  grandma's  house. 

For  Aunt  Isabel's  house  was  what  Pleasanton 
termed  "artistic."  It  had  white-painted  woodwork, 
and  built-in  bookshelves  instead  of  ordinary  book- 
cases, and  lots  of  window-seats,  and  chintz  draperies 
which  trailed  flowers  or  birds  or  peacocks,  which 
were  like  a  combination  of  both,  and  big  wicker 
chairs  with  deep  cushions — all  very  bright  and  cosy 
and  beautiful.  In  the  living-room  were  some  Chi- 
nese embroideries  which  Missy  liked,  especially  when 
the  sun  came  in  and  shone  upon  their  soft,  rich  col- 
ours; she  had  never  before  seen  Chinese  embroider- 
ies and,  thus,  encountered  a  brand-new  love.  Then 
Aunt  Isabel  was  the  kind  of  woman  who  keeps  big 
bowls  of  fresh  flowers  sitting  around  in  all  the  rooms, 
even  if  there's  no  party — a  delightful  habit.  Missy 
was  going  to  adore  watching  Aunt  Isabel's  pretty, 
restless  hands  flutter  about  as,  each  morning,  she 
arranged  the  fresh  flowers  in  their  bowls. 

Even  in  Missy's  room  there  was  a  little  bowl  of 
jade-green  pottery,  a  colour  which  harmonized  ad- 
mirably with  sweet  peas,  late  roses,  nasturtiums,  or 
what-not.  And  all  the  furniture  in  that  room  was 
painted  white,  while  the  chintz  bloomed  with  deli- 
cate little  nosegays. 

The  one  inharmonious  element  was  that  of  Uncle 


Missy  Tackles  Romance  113 

Charlie's  indisposition — not  only  the  fact  that  he 
was  suffering,  but  also  the  nature  of  his  ailment. 
For  Uncle  Charlie,  it  developed,  had  been  helping 
move  a  barrel  of  mixed-pickles  in  the  grocery  de- 
partment of  his  store,  and  the  barrel  had  fallen  full- 
weight  upon  his  foot  and  broken  his  big  toe.  Missy 
realized  that,  of  course,  a  tournament  with  a  sword- 
thrust  in  the  heart,  or  some  catastrophe  like  that, 
would  have  meant  a  more  dangerous  injury;  but — 
a  barrel  of  pickles!  And  his  big  toe!  Any  toe  was 
unromantic.  But  the  big  toe!  That  was  somehow 
the  worst  of  all. 

Uncle  Charlie,  however,  spoke  quite  openly  of  the 
cause  of  his  trouble.  Also  of  its  locale.  Indeed,  he 
could  hardly  have  concealed  the  latter,  as  his  whole 
foot  was  bandaged  up,  and  he  had  to  hobble  about, 
very  awkwardly,  with  the  aid  of  a  cane. 

Uncle  Charlie's  indisposition  kept  him  from  ac- 
companying Missy  and  Aunt  Isabel  to  an  ice-cream 
festival  which  was  held  on  the  Congregational  church 
lawn  that  first  night.  Aunt  Isabel  was  a  Congrega- 
tionalist;  and,  as  mother  was  a  Presbyterian  and 
grandma  a  Methodist,  Missy  was  beginning  to  feel  a 
certain  kinship  with  all  religions. 

This  festival  proved  to  be  a  sort  of  social  gather- 
ing, because  the  Congregational  church  in  Pleasanton 
was  attended  by  the  town's  "best"  people.  The 
women  were  as  stylishly  dressed  as  though  they  were 
at  a  bridge  party — or  a  tournament.  The  church 
lawn  looked  very  picturesque  with  red,  blue  and  yel- 
low lanterns — truly  a  fair  lawn  and  "well  victualled  " 


114  Missy 

with  its  ice-cream  tables  in  the  open.  Large  num- 
bers of  people  strolled  about,  and  ate,  and  chatted 
and  laughed.  The  floating  voices  of  people  you 
couldn't  see,  the  flickering  light  of  the  lanterns,  the 
shadows  just  beyond  their  swaying  range,  all  made 
it  seem  gay  and  alluring,  so  that  you  almost  forgot 
that  it  was  only  a  church  festival. 

A  big  moon  rose  up  from  behind  the  church-tower, 
a  beautiful  and  medieval-looking  combination.  Mis- 
sy thought  of  those  olden-time  feasts  "unto  kings 
and  dukes,"  when  there  was  revel  and  play,  and  "all 
manner  of  noblesse."  And,  though  none  but  her 
suspected  it,  the  little  white-covered  tables  became 
long,  rough-hewn  boards,  and  the  Congregational 
ladies'  loaned  china  became  antique-looking  pewter, 
and  the  tumblers  of  water  were  golden  flaskets  of 
noble  wine.  Missy,  who  was  helping  Aunt  Isabel 
serve  at  one  of  the  tables,  attended  her  worshipful 
patrons  with  all  manner  of  noblesse.  She  was  glad 
she  was  wearing  her  best  pink  mull  with  the  bro- 
caded sash. 

Aunt  Isabel's  table  was  well  patronized.  It  seemed 
to  Missy  that  most  of  the  men  present  tried  to 
get  "served"  here.  Perhaps  it  was  because  they 
admired  Aunt  Isabel.  Missy  couldn't  have  blamed 
them  for  that,  because  none  of  the  other  Congrega- 
tional ladies  was  half  as  pretty.  To-night  Aunt  Isa- 
bel had  on  a  billowy  pale-blue  organdy,  and  she 
looked  more  like  an  angel  than  ever.  An  ethereally 
radiant,  laughing,  vivacious  angel.  And  whenever 
she  moved  near  you,  you  caught  a  ghostly  whiflF  of 


Missy  Tackles  Romance  115 

that  delicious  perfume.  (Missy  now  knows  Aunt 
Isabel  got  it  from  little  sachet  bags,  tucked  away 
with  her  clothes,  and  from  an  "atomizer"  which 
showered  a  delicate,  fairy-like  spray  of  fragrance 
upon  her  hair.)  There  was  one  young  man,  who  was 
handsome  in  a  dark,  imperious  way,  who  hung  about 
and  ate  so  much  ice-cream  that  Missy  feared  lest  he 
should  have  an  "upset"  to-morrow. 

Also,  there  was  another  persevering  patron  for 
whom  she  surmised,  with  modest  palpitation,  Aunt 
Isabel  might  not  be  the  chief  attraction.  The  joy 
of  being  a  visiting  girl  was  begun!  This  individual 
was  a  talkative,  self-confident  youth  named  Raleigh 
Peters.  She  loved  the  name  Raleigh — though  for 
the  Peters  part  she  didn't  care  so  much.  And  al- 
beit, with  the  dignity  which  became  her  advancing 
years,  she  addressed  him  as  "Mr.  Peters,"  in  her 
mind  she  preferred  to  think  of  him  as  "Raleigh." 
Raleigh,  she  learned  (from  himself),  was  the  only  son 
of  a  widowed  mother  and,  though  but  little  older 
than  Missy,  had  already  started  making  his  own  way 
by  clerking  in  Uncle  Charlie's  store.  He  clerked  in 
the  grocery  department,  the  prosperity  of  which,  she 
gathered,  was  largely  due  to  his  own  connection  with 
it.  Some  day,  he  admitted,  he  was  going  to  own 
the  biggest  grocery  store  in  the  State.  He  was  thrill- 
Jngly  independent  and  ambitious  and  assured.  All 
that  seemed  admirable,  but — if  only  he  hadn't  de- 
cided on  groceries !  "  Peters'  Grocery  Store ! "  Missy 
thought  of  jousting,  of  hawking,  of  harping,  customs 
which  noble  gentlemen  used  to  follow,  and  sighed. 


u6  Missy 

But  Raleigh,  unaware  that  his  suit  had  been  lost 
before  it  started,  accompanied  them  all  home.  "All" 
because  the  dark  and  imperiously  handsome  young 
man  went  along,  too.  His  name  was  Mr.  Saunders, 
and  Missy  had  now  learned  he  was  a  "travelling 
man"  who  came  to  Pleasanton  to  sell  Uncle  Charlie 
merchandise;  he  was  also  quite  a  friend  of  the  fam- 
ily's, she  gathered,  and  visited  them  at  the  house. 

When  they  reached  home,  Mr.  Saunders  suggest- 
ed stopping  in  a  minute  to  see  how  Uncle  Charlie 
was.  However,  Uncle  Charlie,  it  turned  out,  was 
already  in  bed. 

"But  you  needn't  go  yet,  anyway,"  said  Aunt 
Isabel.  "It's  heavenly  out  here  on  the  porch." 

"Doesn't  the  hour  wax  late?"  demurred  Mr. 
Saunders.  "Wax  late!" — What  quaint,  delightful 
language  he  used! 

"Oh,  it's  still  early.  Stay  a  while,  and  help  shake 
off  the  atmosphere  of  the  festival — those  festivals 
bore  me  to  death!" 

Odd  how  women  can  act  one  way  while  they're 
feeling  another  way!  Missy  had  supposed,  at  the 
festival,  that  Aunt  Isabel  was  having  a  particularly 
enjoyable  time. 

"Stay  and  let's  have  some  music,"  Aunt  Isabel 
went  on.  "You  left  your  ukelele  here  last  week." 

So  the  handsome  Mr.  Saunders  played  the  ukelele! 
— How  wonderfully  that  suited  his  type.  And  it 
was  just  the  kind  of  moonlight  night  for  music.  Mis- 
sy rejoiced  when  Mr.  Saunders  decided  to  stay,  and 
Aunt  Isabel  went  in  the  house  for  the  ukelele. 


Missy  Tackles  Romance  117 

It  was  heavenly  when  Mr.  Saunders  began  to  play 
and  sing.  The  others  had  seated  themselves  in 
porch  chairs,  but  he  chose  a  place  on  the  top  step, 
his  head  thrown  back  against  a  pillar,  and  the  moon 
shining  full  on  his  dark,  imperious  face.  His  bold 
eyes  now  gazed  dreamily  into  distance  as,  in  a  gol- 
den tenor  that  seemed  to  melt  into  the  moonlight 
itself,  he  sang: 

"  They  plucked  the  stars  out  of  the  blue,  dear, 
Gave  them  to  you,  dear, 
For  eyes  .  .  ." 

The  ukelele  under  his  fingers  thrummed  out  a  soft, 
vibrant,  melancholy  accompaniment.  It  was  divine! 
Here  surely  was  a  "harper  passing  all  other!"  Mr. 
Saunders  looked  something  like  a  knight,  too — all 
but  his  costume.  He  was  so  tall  and  dark  and  hand- 
some; and  his  dark  eyes  were  bold,  though  now  so 
soft  from  his  own  music. 

The  music  stopped.  Aunt  Isabel  jumped  up  from 
her  porch  chair,  left  the  shadows,  and  seated  herself 
beside  him  on  the  moonlit  top. 

"That  looks  easy,"  she  said.  "Show  me  how  to 
do  it." 

She  took  the  ukelele  from  him.  He  showed  her 
how  to  place  her  fingers — their  fingers  got  tangled 
up — they  laughed. 

Missy  started  to  laugh,  too,  but  stopped  right  in 
the  middle  of  it.  A  sudden  thought  had  struck  her, 
remembrance  of  another  beauteous  lady  who  had 
been  "learned"  to  harp.  She  gazed  down  on  Aunt 


n8  Missy 

Isabel — how  beautiful  there  in  the  white  moonlight! 
So  fair  and  slight,  the  scarf-thing  around  her  shoul- 
ders like  a  shroud  of  mist,  hair  like  unto  gold,  eyes 
like  the  stars  of  heaven.  Her  eyes  were  now  lifted 
laughingly  to  Mr.  Saunders'.  She  was  so  close  he 
must  catch  that  faintly  sweetness  of  her  hair.  He 
returned  the  look  and  started  to  sing  again;  while 
La  Beale — no,  Aunt  Isabel — 

Even  the  names  were  alike! 

Missy  drew  in  a  quick,  sharp  breath.  Mr.  Saun- 
ders, now  smiling  straight  at  Aunt  Isabel  as  she 
tried  to  pick  the  chords,  went  on: 

"  They  plucked  the  stars  out  of  the  blue,  dear. 
Gave  them  to  you,  dear, 
For  eyes  .  .  ." 

How  expressively  he  sang  those  words!  Missy 
became  troubled.  Of  course  Romance  was  beauti- 
ful but  those  things  belonged  in  ancient  times.  You 
wouldn't  want  things  like  that  right  in  your  own 
family,  especially  when  Uncle  Charlie  already  had  a 
broken  big  toe  .  .  . 

She  forgot  that  the  music  was  beautiful,  the  night 
bewitching;  she  even  forgot  to  listen  to  what  Raleigh 
was  saying,  till  he  leaned  forward  and  demanded 
irately: 

"Say!  you  haven't  gone  to  sleep,  have  you?" 

Missy  gave  a  start,  blinked,  and  looked  self-con- 
scious. 

"Oh,  excuse  me,"  she  murmured.  "I  guess  I  was 
sort  of  dreaming." 


Missy  Tackles  Romance  119 

Mr.  Satmders,  overhearing,  glanced  up  at  her. 

"The  spell  of  moon  and  music,  fair  maid?"  he 
asked.  And,  though  he  smiled,  she  didn't  feel  that 
he  was  making  fun  of  her. 

Again  that  quaint  language!  A  knight  of  old 
might  have  talked  that  way!  But  Missy,  just  now, 
was  doubtful  as  to  whether  a  knight  in  the  flesh  was 
entirely  desirable. 

It  was  with  rather  confused  emotions  that,  after 
the  visitors  had  departed  and  she  had  told  Aunt  Isa- 
bel good  night,  Missy  went  up  to  the  little  white- 
painted,  cretonne-draped  room.  Life  was  interest- 
ing, but  sometimes  it  got  very  queer. 

After  she  had  undressed  and  snapped  off  the  light, 
she  leaned  out  of  the  window  and  looked  at  the 
night  for  a  long  time.  Missy  loved  the  night;  the 
hordes  of  friendly  little  stars  which  nodded  and  whis- 
pered to  one  another;  the  round  silver  moon,  up 
there  at  some  enigmatic  distance  yet  able  to  trans- 
figure the  whole  world  with  fairy-whiteness — turn- 
ing the  dew  on  the  grass  into  pearls,  the  leaves  on 
the  trees  into  trembling  silver  butterflies,  and  the 
dusty  street  into  a  breadth  of  shimmering  silk.  At 
night,  too,  the  very  flowers  seemed  to  give  out  a 
sweeter  odour;  perhaps  that  was  because  you 
couldn't  see  them. 

Missy  leaned  farther  out  the  window  to  sniff  in 
that  damp,  sweet  scent  of  unseen  flowers,  to  feel  the 
white  moonlight  on  her  hand.  She  had  often  wished 
that,  by  some  magic,  the  world  might  be  enabled  to 
spin  out  its  whole  time  in  such  a  gossamer,  irradiant 


1 20  Missy 

sheen  as  this  —  a  sort  of  moon-haunted  night- 
without-end,  keeping  you  tingling  with  beautiful, 
blurred,  indescribable  feelings. 

But  to-night,  for  the  first  time,  Missy  felt  skep- 
tical as  to  that  earlier  desire.  She  still  found  the 
night  beautiful — oh,  inexpressibly  beautiful! — but 
moonlight  nights  were  what  made  lovers  want  to 
look  into  each  other's  eyes,  and  sing  each  other  love- 
songs  "with  expression.''  To  be  sure,  she  had  for- 
merly considered  this  very  tendency  an  elysian  fea- 
ture of  such  nights;  but  that  was  when  she  thought 
that  love  always  was  right  for  its  own  sake,  that  true 
lovers  never  should  be  thwarted.  She  still  held  by 
that  belief;  and  yet — she  visioned  Uncle  Charlie, 
dear  Uncle  Charlie,  so  fond  of  buying  Aunt  Isabel 
extravagant  organdies  and  slippers  to  match;  so  like 
grandpa  and  father — and  King  Mark! 

Missy  had  always  hated  King  Mark,  the  lawful 
husband,  the  enemy  of  true  love.  But  Romance 
gets  terribly  complicated  when  it  threatens  to  leave 
the  Middle  Ages,  pop  right  in  on  you  when  you  are 
visiting  in  Pleasanton;  and  when  the  lawful  husband 
is  your  own  Uncle  Charlie — poor  Uncle  Charlie! — 
lying  in  there  suffering  with  his  broken — well  there 
was  no  denying  it  was  his  big  toe. 

Missy  didn't  know  that  her  eyes  had  filled — tears 
sometimes  came  so  unexpectedly  nowadays — till  a 
big  drop  splashed  down  on  her  hand. 

She  felt  very,  very  sad.  Often  she  didn't  mind 
being  sad.  Sometimes  she  even  enjoyed  it  in  a  pe- 
culiar way  on  moonlit  nights;  found  a  certain  pleas- 


Missy  Tackles  Romance  121 

ant  poignancy  of  exaltation  in  the  feeling.  But  there 
are  different  kinds  of  sadness.  To-night  she  didn't 
like  it.  She  forsook  the  moonlit  vista  and  crept  into 
bed. 

The  next  morning  she  overslept.  Perhaps  it  was 
because  she  wasn't  in  her  own  little  east  room  at 
home,  where  the  sun  and  Poppy,  her  cat,  vied  to 
waken  her;  or  perhaps  because  it  had  turned  in- 
tensely hot  and  sultry  during  the  night — the  air 
seemed  to  glue  down  her  eyelids  so  as  to  make  wak- 
ing up  all  the  harder. 

It  was  Sunday,  and,  when  she  finally  got  dressed 
and  downstairs,  the  house  was  still  unusually  quiet. 
But  she  found  Uncle  Charlie  in  his  "den"  with  the 
papers.  He  said  Aunt  Isabel  was  staying  in  bed 
with  a  headache;  and  he  himself  hobbled  into  the 
dining  room  with  Missy,  and  sat  with  her  while  the 
maid  (Aunt  Isabel  called  her  hired  girl  a  "maid") 
gave  her  breakfast. 

Uncle  Charlie  seemed  cheerful  despite  his — his 
trouble.  And  everything  seemed  so  peaceful  and 
beautiful  that  Missy  could  hardly  realize  that  ever 
Tragedy  might  come  to  this  house.  Somewhere  in 
the  distance  church  bells  were  tranquilly  sounding. 
Out  in  the  kitchen  could  be  heard  the  ordinary  clat- 
ter of  dishes.  And  in  the  dining  room  it  was  very, 
very  sweet.  The  sun  filtered  through  the  gently 
swaying  curtains,  touching  vividly  the  sweet  peas 
on  the  breakfast-table.  The  sweet  peas  were  ar- 
ranged to  stand  upright  in  a  round,  shallow  bowl, 
just  as  if  they  were  growing  up  out  of  a  little  pool — 


122  Missy 

a  marvellously  artistic  effect.  The  china  was  very 
artistic,  too,  Japanese,  with  curious-looking  dragons 
in  soft  old-blue.  And,  after  the  orange,  she  had  a 
finger-bowl  with  a  little  sprig  of  rose-geranium  she 
could  crunch  between  her  fingers  till  it  sent  out  a 
heavenly  odour.  It  was  just  like  Aunt  Isabel  to 
have  rose-geranium  in  her  finger-bowls! 

Her  mind  was  filled  with  scarcely  defined  surmises 
concerning  Aunt  Isabel,  her  unexpected  headache, 
and  the  too  handsome  harper.  But  Uncle  Charlie, 
unsuspecting,  talked  on  in  that  cheerful  strain.  He 
was  teasing  Missy  because  she  liked  the  ham  and 
eggs  and  muffins,  and  took  a  second  helping  of  every- 
thing. 

"Good  thing  I  can  get  groceries  at  wholesale!"  he 
bantered.  "Else  I'd  never  dare  ask  you  to  visit 
me!" 

Missy  returned  his  smile,  grateful  that  the  matter 
of  her  appetite  might  serve  to  keep  him  jolly  a  little 
while  longer.  Perhaps  he  didn't  even  suspect,  yet. 
Did  he  suspect?  She  couldn't  forbear  a  tentative 
question : 

"What  seems  to  be  the  matter  with  Aunt  Isabel, 
Uncle  Charlie?" 

"Why,  didn't  I  tell  you  she  has  a  headache?' 

"Oh!  a  headache."  She  was  silent  a  second;  then, 
as  if  there  was  something  strange  about  this  mal- 
ady, she  went  on:  "Did  she  say  she  had  a  head- 
ache?" 

"Of  course,  my  dear.  It's  a  pretty  bad  one.  I 
guess  it  must  be  the  weather." 


Missy  Tackles  Romance  123 

It  was  hot.  Uncle  Charlie  had  taken  off  his  coat 
and  was  in  his  shirt  sleeves — she  was  pleased  to  note 
it  was  a  silken  shirt;  little  beads  of  perspiration  stood 
out  on  his  forehead,  and  on  his  head  where  it  was 
just  beginning  to  get  bald.  Somehow,  the  fact  that 
he  looked  so  hot  had  the  effect  of  making  her  feel 
even  more  tender  toward  him.  So,  though  she  thirst- 
ed for  information,  not  for  the  world  would  she  have 
aroused  his  suspicions  by  questions.  And  she  made 
her  voice  very  casual,  when  she  finally  enquired : 

"  By  the  way,  that  Mr.  Saunders  who  brought  uy 
home  is  awfully  handsome.  Sort  of  gallant  looking,, 
don't  you  think  ? " 

Uncle  Charlie  laughed;  then  shook  his  finger  at 
her  in  mock  admonition. 

"Oh,  Missy!    You 've  fallen,  too?" 

Missy  gulped;  Uncle  Charlie  had  made  an  unwit- 
ting revelation!  But  she  tried  not  to  give  herself 
away;  still  casual,  she  asked: 

"Oh!  do  other  people  fall?" 

"All  the  ladies  fall  for  Saunders,"  said  Uncle 
Charlie. 

Missy  hesitated,  then  hazarded: 

"Aunt  Isabel,  too?" 

"Oh,  yes."  Uncle  Charlie  looked  pathetically  un- 
concerned. "Aunt  Isabel  likes  to  have  him  around. 
He  often  comes  in  handy  at  dances." 

It  would  be  just  like  Mr.  Saunders  to  be  a  good 
dancer! 

"He  harps  well,  too,"  she  said  meditatively. 

"What's  that?"  enquired  Uncle  Charlie. 


124  Missy 

"Oh,  I  mean  that  thing  he  plays." 

"The  ukelele.  Yes,  Saunders  is  a  wizard  with  it. 
But  in  spite  of  that  he's  a  good  fellow."  (What  did 
"in  spite  of  that"  mean — didn't  Uncle  Charlie  ap- 
prove of  harpers?) 

He  continued:  "He  sometimes  goes  on  fishing- 
trips  with  me." 

Fishing-trips!  From  father  Missy  had  learned 
that  this  was  the  highest  proof  of  camaraderie.  So 
Uncle  Charlie  didn't  suspect.  He  was  harbouring  the 
serpent  in  his  very  bosom.  Missy  crumpled  the 
fragrant  rose-geranium  reflectively  between  her  fin- 
gers. 

Then  Uncle  Charlie  suggested  that  she  play  some- 
thing for  him  on  the  piano.  And  Missy,  feeling 
every  minute  tenderer  toward  him  because  she  must 
keep  to  herself  the  dreadful  truths  which  would  hurt 
him  if  he  knew,  hurried  to  his  side,  took  away  his 
cane,  and  put  her  own  arm  in  its  place  for  him  to 
lean  on.  And  Uncle  Charlie  seemed  to  divine  there 
was  something  special  in  her  deed,  for  he  reached 
down  and  patted  the  arm  which  supported  him,  and 
said: 

"You're  a  dear  child,  Missy." 

In  the  living-room  the  sun  was  shining  through 
the  charming,  cretonne-hung  bay  window  and  upon 
the  soft,  rich  colours  of  the  Chinese  embroideries. 
The  embroideries  were  on  the  wall  beyond  the  piano, 
so  that  she  could  see  them  while  she  played.  Uncle 
Charlie  wasn't  in  her  range  of  vision  unless  she 
turned  her  head;  but  she  could  smell  his  cigar,  and 


Missy  Tackles  Romance  125 

could  sense  him  sitting  there  very  quiet  in  a  big 
wicker  chair,  smoking,  his  eyes  half  closed,  his  ban- 
daged foot  stretched  out  on  a  little  stool. 

And  her  poignant  feeling  of  sympathy  for  him, 
sitting  there  thus,  and  her  rapturous  delight  in  the 
sun-touched  colours  of  the  embroideries,  and  the 
hushed  peace  of  the  hot  Sabbath  morning,  all 
seemed  to  intermingle  and  pierce  to  her  very  soul. 
She  was  glad  to  play  the  piano.  When  deeply  moved 
she  loved  to  play,  to  pour  out  her  feelings  in  dreamy 
melodies  and  deep  vibrant  harmonies  with  queer 
minor  cadences  thrown  in — the  kind  of  music  you 
can  play  "with  expression,"  while  you  vision  mys- 
terious, poetic  pictures. 

After  a  moment's  reflection,  she  decided  on  "The 
Angel's  Serenade";  she  knew  it  by  heart,  and  adored 
playing  it.  There  was  something  brightly-sweet  and 
brightly-sad  in  those  strains  of  loveliness;  she  could 
almost  hear  the  soft  flutter  of  angelic  wings,  almost 
see  the  silvery  sheen  of  them  astir.  And,  oddly,  all 
that  sheen  and  stir,  all  that  sadly-sweet  sound, 
seemed  to  come  from  within  herself — just  as  if  her 
own  soul  were  singing,  instead  of  the  piano  keyboard. 

And  with  Missy,  to  play  "The  Angel's  Serenade" 
was  to  crave  playing  more  such  divine  pieces;  she 
drifted  on  into  "Traumerei";  "Simple  Confession"; 
"One  Sweetly  Solemn  Thought,"  with  variations. 
She  played  them  all  with  extra  "expression,"  putting 
all  her  loving  sympathy  for  Uncle  Charlie  into  her 
finger-tips.  And  he  must  have  been  soothed  by  it, 
for  he  dozed  off,  and  came  to  with  a  start  when 


126  Missy 

she  finally  paused,  to  tell  her  how  beautifully  she 
played. 

Then  began  a  delicious  time  of  talking  together. 
Uncle  Charlie  was  like  grandpa — the  kind  of  man 
you  enjoyed  talking  with,  about  deep,  unusual  things. 
They  talked  about  music,  and  the  meaning  of  the 
pieces  she'd  played.  Then  about  reading.  He  asked 
her  what  she  was  reading  nowadays. 

"This  is  your  book,  isn't  it?"  he  enquired,  pick- 
ing up  "The  Romances  of  King  Arthur"  from  the 
table  beside  him.  Heavens!  how  tactless  of  her  to 
have  brought  it  down  this  morning!  But  there  was 
nothing  for  her  to  do,  save  to  act  in  a  natural,  casual 
manner. 
;i  "Yes,"  she  said. 

Uncle  Charlie  opened  the  book.  Heavens!  it  fell 
open  at  the  illustration  of  the  two  lovers  drinking 
the  fateful  potion! 

"Which  is  your  favourite  legend?"  he  asked. 

Missy  was  too  nervous  to  utter  anything  but  the 
simple  truth. 

"The  story  of  Sir  Tristram  and  La  Beale  Isoud," 
she  answered. 

"Ah,"  said  Uncle  Charlie.  He  gazed  at  the  pic- 
ture she  knew  so  well.  What  was  he  thinking? 

"Why  is  it  your  favourite?"  he  went  on. 

"I  don't  know — because  it's  so  romantic,  I  guess. 
And  so  sad  and  beautiful." 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  Uncle1  Charlie.  "You  have  a 
feeling  for  the  classic,  I  see.  You  call  her 
•'Isoud'?" 


Missy  Tackles  Romance  127 

That  pleased  Missy;  and,  despite  her  agitation 
over  this  malaprop  theme,  she  couldn't  resist  the  im- 
pulse to  air  her  lately  acquired  learning. 

"Yes,  but  she  has  different  names  in  all  the  differ- 
ent languages,  you  know.  And  she  was  the  most 
beautiful  lady  or  maiden  that  ever  lived." 

"Is  that  so?"  said  Uncle  Charlie.  "More  beauti- 
ful than  your  Aunt  Isabel?" 

Missy  hesitated,  confused;  the  conversation  was 
getting  on  dangerous  ground.  "Why,  I  guess  they're 
the  same  type,  don't  you?  I've  often  thought  Aunt 
Isabel  looks  like  La  Beale  Isoud." 

Uncle  Charlie  smiled  again  at  her — an  altogether 
cheerful  kind  of  smile;  no,  he  didn't  suspect  any 
tragic  undercurrent  beneath  this  pleasant-sounding 
conversation.  All  he  said  was: 

"Aunt  Isabel  should  feel  flattered — but  I  hope 
she  finds  a  happier  lot." 

Ah! 

"Yes,  I  hope  so,"  breathed  Missy,  rather  weakly. 

Then  Uncle  Charlie  at  last  closed  the  book. 

"Poor  Tristram  and  Isolde,"  he  said,  as  if  speak- 
ing an  epitaph. 

But  Missy  caught  her  breath.  Uncle  Charlie  felt 
sorry  for  the  ill-fated  lovers.  Oh,  if  he  only  knew! 

At  dinner  time  (on  Sundays  they  had  midday  din- 
ner here),  Aunt  Isabel  came  down  to  the  table.  She 
said  her  head  was  better,  but  she  looked  pale;  and 
her  blue  eyes  were  just  like  the  Blessed  Damozel's, 
"deeper  than  the  depth  of  waters  stilled  at  even." 
Yet,  pale  and  quiet  like  this,  she  seemed  even  more 


128  Missy 

beautiful  than  ever,  especially  in  that  adorable  lav- 
ender negligee — with  slippers  to  match.  Missy  re- 
garded her  with  secret  fascination. 

After  dinner,  complaining  of  the  heat,  Aunt  Isabel 
retired  to  her  room  again.  She  suggested  that  Missy 
take  a  nap,  also.  Missy  didn't  think  she  was  sleepy, 
but,  desiring  to  be  alone  with  her  bewildered  thoughts, 
she  went  upstairs  and  lay  down.  The  better  to  think 
things  over,  she  closed  her  eyes;  and  when  she 
opened  them  to  her  amazement  there  was  Aunt  Isabel 
standing  beside  the  bed — a  radiant  vision  in  pink 
organdy  this  time — and  saying: 

"Wake  up,  sleepy-head!    It's  nearly  six  o'clock!" 

Aunt  Isabel,  her  vivacious  self  once  more,  with 
gentle  fingers  (Oh,  hard  not  to  love  Aunt  Isabel!) 
helped  Missy  get  dressed  for  supper. 

It  was  still  so  hot  that,  at  supper,  everyone  drank 
a  lot  of  ice-tea  and  ate  a  lot  of  ice-cream.  Missy 
felt  in  a  steam  all  over  when  they  rose  from  the 
table  and  went  out  to  sit  on  the  porch.  It  was  very 
serene,  for  all  the  sultriness,  out  on  the  porch;  and 
Aunt  Isabel  was  so  sweet  toward  Uncle  Charlie  that 
Missy  felt  her  gathering  suspicions  had  something 
of  the  unreal  quality  of  a  nightmare.  Aunt  Isabel 
was  reading  aloud  to  Uncle  Charlie  out  of  the  Sun- 
day paper.  Beautiful!  The  sunset  was  carrying 
away  its  gold  like  some  bold  knight  with  his  cap- 
tured, streaming-tressed  lady.  The  fitful  breeze 
whispered  in  the  rhythm  of  olden  ballads.  Unseen 
church  bells  sent  long-drawn  cadences  across  the 
evening  hush.  And  the  little  stars  quivered  into  be- 


Missy  Tackles  Romance  129 

ing,  to  peer  at  the  young  poignancy  of  feeling  which 
cannot  know  what  it  contributes  to  the  world    .    .    . 
'  Everything  was  idyllic — that  is,  almost  idyllic — 
till,  suddenly  Uncle  Charlie  spoke: 

"Isn't  that  Saunders  coming  up  the  street?" 

Why,  oh  why,  did  Mr.  Saunders  have  to  come  and 
spoil  everything? 

But  poor  Uncle  Charlie  seemed  glad  to  see  him — 
just  as  glad  as  Aunt  Isabel.  Mr.  Saunders  sat  up 
there  amongst  them,  laughing  and  joking,  now  and 
then  directing  one  of  his  quaint,  romantic-sounding 
phrases  at  Missy.  And  she  pretended  to  be  pleased 
with  him — indeed,  she  would  have  liked  Mr.  Saun- 
ders under  any  other  circumstances. 

Presently  he  exclaimed : 

"By  my  halidome,  I'm  hot!  My  kingdom  for  a 
long,  tall  ice-cream  soda!" 

And  Uncle  Charlie  said : 

"Well,  why  don't  you  go  and  get  one?  The  drug 
store's  just  two  blocks  around  the  corner." 

"A  happy  suggestion,"  said  Mr.  Saunders.  He 
turned  to  Aunt  Isabel.  "Will  you  join  me?" 

"Indeed  I  will,"  she  answered.    "I'm  stifling." 

Then  Mr.  Saunders  looked  at  Missy. 

"And  you,  fair  maid?" 

Missy  thought  a  cool  soda  would  taste  good. 

At  the  drug  store,  the  three  of  them  sat  on  tall 
stools  before  the  white  marble  counter,  and  quaffed 
heavenly  cold  soda  from  high  glasses  in  silver-look- 
ing flaskets.  "Poor  Charlie!  He  likes  soda,  so,"  re- 
marked Aunt  Isabel. 


130  Missy 

"Why  not  take  him  some?'* 

Missy  didn't  know  you  could  do  that,  but  the 
drug  store  man  said  it  would  be  all  right. 

Then  they  all  started  home  again,  Aunt  Isabel 
carrying  the  silver-looking  flasket. 

It  was  when  they  were  about  half-way,  that  Aunt 
Isabel  suddenly  exclaimed : 

"Do  you  know,  I  believe  I  could  drink  another 
:soda?  I  feel  hotter  than  ever — and  it  looks  so 
.good!" 

"Why  not  drink  it,  then?"  asked  Mr.  Saunders. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Aunt  Isabel. 

"Do,"  he  insisted.  "We  can  go  back  and  get  an- 
other." 

"Well,  I'll  take  a  taste,"  she  said. 

On  the  words,  she  lifted  the  flasket  to  her  lips  and 
took  a  long  draught.  Then  Mr.  Saunders,  laughing, 
caught  it  from  her,  and  he  took  a  long  draught. 

Missy  felt  a  wave  of  icy  horror  sweep  down  her 
spine.  She  wanted  to  cry  out  in  protest.  For,  even 
while  she  stared  at  them,  at  Aunt  Isabel  in  pink  or- 
gandie and  Mr.  Saunders  in  blue  serge  dividing  the 
flasket  of  soda  between  them,  a  vision  presented  it- 
self clearly  before  her  eyes: 

La  Beale  Isoud  slenderly  tall  in  a  straight  girdled 
gown  of  grey-green  velvet,  head  thrown  back  so  that 
her  filleted  golden  hair  brushed  her  shoulders,  violet 
eyes  half-closed,  and  an  "antique "-looking  flasket 
clasped  in  her  two  slim  hands;  and  Sir  Tristram  so 
imperiously  dark  and  handsome  in  his  crimson,  fur- 
trimmed  doublet,  his  two  hands  stretched  out  and 


Missy  Tackles  Romance  131 

gripping  her  two  shoulders,  his  black  eyes  burning 
as  if  to  look  through  her  closed  lids — the  magical 
love-potion  .  .  .  love  that  never  would  depart  for 
weal  neither  for  woe.  .  .  . 

Missy  closed  her  eyes  tight,  as  if  fearing  what 
they  might  behold  in  the  flesh.  But  when  she  opened 
them  again,  Aunt  Isabel  was  only  gazing  into  the 
drained  flasket  with  a  rueful  expression. 

Then  they  went  back  and  got  another  soda  for 
Uncle  Charlie.  And  poor  Uncle  Charlie,  unsuspect- 
ing, seemed  to  enjoy  it. 

During  the  remainder  of  that  evening  Missy  was 
unusually  subdued.  She  realized,  of  course,  that 
there  were  no  love-potions  nowadays;  that  they  ex- 
isted only  in  the  Middle  Ages;  and  that  the  silver 
flasket  contained  everyday  ice-cream  soda.  And 
she  wasn't  sure  she  knew  exactly  what  the  word 
"symbol"  meant,  but  she  felt  that  somehow  the  ice- 
cream soda,  shared  between  them,  was  symbolic  of 
that  famous,  fateful  drink.  She  wished  acutely  that 
this  second  episode,  so  singularly  parallel,  hadn't 
happened. 

She  was  still  absorbed  in  gloomy  meditations  when 
Mr.  Saunders  arose  to  go. 

"Oh,  it's  early  yet,"  protested  Uncle  Charlie — 
dear,  kind,  ignorant  Uncle  Charlie! 

"But  I've  got  to  catch  the  ten-thirty-five,"  said 
Mr.  Saunders. 

"Why  can't  you  stay  over  till  to-morrow  night," 
suggested  Aunt  Isabel.  She  had  risen,  too,  and  now 
put  her  hand  on  Mr.  Saunders's  sleeve;  her  face 


132  Missy 

looked  quite  pleading  in  the  moonlight.  "There's 
to  be  a  dance  in  Odd  Fellows'  Hall." 

"I'd  certainly  love  to  stay."  He  even  dared  to 
take  hold  of  her  hand  openly.  "But  I've  got  to  be 
in  Paola  in  the  morning,  and  Blue  Mound  next  day." 

"The  orchestra's  coming  down  from  Macon  City," 
she  cajoled. 

"Now,  don't  make  it  any  harder  for  me,"  begged 
Mr.  Saunders,  smiling  down  at  her. 

Aunt  Isabel  petulantly  drew  away  her  hand. 

"You're  selfish!    And  Charlie  laid  up  and  all!" 

Mr.  Saunders  outspread  his  hands  in  a  helpless 
gesture. 

"Well,  you  know  the  hard  lot  of  the  knight  of  the 
road — here  to-day,  gone  to-morrow,  never  able  to 
stay  where  his  heart  would  wish!" 

Missy  caught  her  breath;  how  incautiously  he 
talked! 

After  Mr.  Saunders  was  gone,  Aunt  Isabel  sat 
relapsed  in  her  porch  chair,  very  quiet.  Missy 
couldn't  keep  her  eyes  off  of  that  lovely,  apa- 
thetic figure.  Once  Aunt  Isabel  put  her  hand  to 
her  head. 

"Head  hitting  it  up  again?"  asked  Uncle  Charlie 
solicitously. 

Aunt  Isabel  nodded. 

"You'd  better  get  to  bed,  then,"  he  said.  And, 
despite  his  wounded  toe,  he  wouldn't  let  her  attend 
to  the  shutting-up  "chores,"  but,  accompanied  by 
Missy,  hobbled  around  to  all  the  screen  doors  him- 
self. Poor  Uncle  Charlie! 


Missy  Tackles  Romance  133 

It  was  hard  for  Missy  to  get  to  sleep  that  night. 
Her  brain  was  a  dark,  seething  whirlpool.  And  the 
air  seemed  to  grow  thicker  and  thicker;  it  rested 
heavily  on  her  hot  eyelids,  pressed  suffocatingly 
against  her  throat.  And  when,  finally,  she  escaped 
her  thoughts  in  sleep,  it  was  only  to  encounter  them 
again  in  troubled  dreams. 

She  was  awakened  abruptly  by  a  terrific  noise. 
Oh,  Lord!  what  was  it?  She  sat  up.  It  sounded  as 
if  the  house  were  falling  down.  Then  the  room,  the 
whole  world,  turned  suddenly  a  glaring,  ghostly 
white — then  a  sharp,  spiteful,  head-splitting  crack 
of  sound — then  heavier,  staccato  volleys — then  a 
baneful  rumble,  dying  away. 

A  thunder-storm!  Oh,  Lord!  Missy  buried  her 
face  in  her  pillow.  Nothing  in  the  world  so  terrified 
her  as  thunder-storms. 

She  seemed  to  have  lain  there  ages,  scarcely 
breathing,  when,  in  a  little  lull,  above  the  fierce 
swish  of  rain  she  thought  she  heard  voices.  Cau- 
tiously she  lifted  her  head;  listened.  She  had  left 
her  door  open  for  air  and,  now,  she  was  sure  she 
heard  Uncle  Charlie's  deep  voice.  She  couldn't  hear 
what  he  was  saying.  Then  she  heard  Aunt  Isabel's 
voice,  no  louder  than  Uncle  Charlie's  but  more  pene- 
trating; it  had  a  queer  note  in  it — almost  as  if  she 
were  crying.  Suddenly  she  did  cry  out! — And  then 
Uncle  Charlie's  deep  grumble  again. 

Missy's  heart  nearly  stopped  beating.  Could  it 
be  that  Uncle  Charlie  had  found  out? — That  he  was 
accusing  Aunt  Isabel  and  making  her  cry?  But  sure- 


134  Missy 

\y  they  wouldn't  quarrel  in  a  thunder-storm!  Light- 
ning might  hit  the  house,  or  anything! 

The  conjunction  of  terrors  was  too  much  for  Missy 
to  bear.  Finally  she  crept  out  of  bed  and  to  the 
door.  An  unmistakable  moan  issued  from  Aunt  Isa- 
bel's room.  And  then  she  saw  Uncle  Charlie,  in 
bath-robe  and  pajamas,  coming  down  the  hall  from 
the  bathroom.  He  was  carrying  a  hot-water  bottle. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter,  Missy?"  he  asked  her. 
"The  storm  frighten  you?" 

Missy  nodded;  she  couldn't  voice  those  other  hor- 
rible fears  which  were  tormenting  her. 

"Well,  the  worst  is  over  now,"  he  said  reassuring- 
ly. "Run  back  to  bed.  Your  aunt's  sick  again — 
I've  just  been  filling  the  hot-water  bottle  for  her." 

"Is  she — very  sick?"  asked  Missy  tremulously. 

"Pretty  sick,"  answered  Uncle  Charlie.  "But 
there's  nothing  you  can  do.  Jump  back  into  bed." 

So  Missy  crept  back,  and  listened  to  the  gradual 
steadying  down  of  the  rain.  She  was  almost  sorry, 
now,  that  the  whirlwind  of  frantic  elements  had  sub- 
sided; that  had  been  a  sort  of  terrible  complement 
to  the  whirlwind  of  anguish  within  herself. 

She  la,y  there  tense,  strangling  a  desperate  im- 
pulse to  sob.  La  Beale  Isoud  had  died  of  love — and 
now  Aunt  Isabel  was  already  sickening.  She  half- 
realized  that  people  don't  die  of  love  nowadays — 
that  happened  only  in  the  Middle  Ages;  yet,  there  in 
the  black  stormy  night,  strange,  horrible  fancies 
overruled  the  sane  convictions  of  daytime.  It  was 
fearfully  significant,  Aunt  Isabel's  sickening  so  quick- 


Missy  Tackles  Romance  135 

ly,  so  mysteriously.  And  immediately  after  Mr. 
Saunders's  departure.  That  was  exactly  what  La 
Beale  Isoud  always  did  whenever  Sir  Tristram  was 
obliged  to  leave  her;  Sir  Tristram  was  continually 
having  to  flee  away,  a  kind  of  knight  of  the  road, 
too — to  this  battle  or  that  tourney  or  what-not — 
"here  to-day,  gone  to-morrow,  never  able  to  stay 
where  his  heart  would  wish." 

"Oh!  oh!" 

At  last  exhaustion  had  its  way  with  the  taut, 
quivering  little  body;  the  hot  eyelids  closed;  the 
burning  cheek  relaxed  on  the  pillow.  Missy  slept. 

When  she  awoke,  the  sun,  which  is  so  blithely  in- 
different to  sufferings  of  earth,  was  high  up  in  a  clear 
sky.  The  new-washed  air  was  cool  and  sparkling  as 
a  tonic.  Missy's  physical  being  felt  more  refreshed 
than  she  cared  to  admit;  for  her  turmoil  of  spirit 
had  awakened  with  her,  and  she  felt  her  body  should 
be  in  keeping. 

By  the  time  she  got  dressed  and  downstairs,  Uncle 
Charlie  had  breakfasted  and  was  about  to  go  down 
town.  He  said  Aunt  Isabel  was  still  in  bed,  but 
much  better. 

"She  had  no  business  to  drink  all  those  sodas," 
he  said.  "Her  stomach  was  already  upset  from  all 
that  ice-cream  and  cake  the  night  before — and  the 
hot  weather  and  all — ' 

Missy  was  scarcely  listening  to  the  last.  One 
phrase  had  caught  her  ear:  "Her  stomach  upset!" 
—How  could  Uncle  Charlie? 

But  when  she  went  up  to  Aunt  Isabel's  room  later, 


136  Missy 

the  latter  reiterated  that  unromantic  diagnosis.  But 
perhaps  she  was  pretending.  That  would  be  only 
natural. 

Missy  regarded  the  convalescent;  she  seemed  quite 
cheerful  now,  though  wan.  And  not  so  lovely  as  she 
generally  did.  Missy  couldn't  forbear  a  leading  re- 
mark. 

"I'm  terribly  sorry  Mr.  Saunders  had  to  go  away 
so  soon."  She  strove  for  sympathetic  tone,  but  felt 
inexpert  and  self-conscious.  "Terribly  sorry.  I 
can't—" 

And  then,  suddenly,  Aunt  Isabel  laughed  — 
laughed! — and  said  a  surprising  thing. 

"What !    You,  too,  Missy  ?   Oh,  that's  too  funny ! " 

Missy  stared — reproach,  astonishment,  bewilder- 
ment, contending  in  her  expression. 

Aunt  Isabel  continued  that  delighted  gurgle. 

"Mr.  Saunders  is  a  notorious  heart-breaker — but 
I  didn't  realize  he  was  capturing  yours  so  speedily!" 

Striving  to  keep  her  dignity,  Missy  perhaps  made 
her  tone  more  severe  than  she  intended. 

"Well,"  she  accused,  "didn't  he  capture  yours, 
Aunt  Isabel?" 

Then  Aunt  Isabel,  still  laughing  a  little,  but  with 
a  serious  shade  creeping  into  her  eyes,  reached  out 
for  one  of  Missy's  hands  and  smoothed  it  gently  be- 
tween her  own. 

"No,  dear;  I'm  afraid  your  Uncle  Charlie  has  that 
too  securely  tucked  away." 

Something  in  Aunt  Isabel's  voice,  her  manner,  her 
eyes,  even  more  than  her  words,  convinced  Missy 


Missy  Tackles  Romance  137 

that  she  was  speaking  the  real  truth.  It  was  all  a 
kind  of  wild  jumbled  day-dream  she'd  been  having. 
La  Beale  Aunt  Isabel  wasn't  in  love  with  Mr.  Saun- 
ders  after  all!  She  was  in  love  with  Uncle  Charlie. 
There  had  been  no  romantic  undermeaning  in  all 
that  harp-ukelele  business,  in  the  flasket  of  ice- 
cream soda,  in  the  mysterious  sickness.  The  sick- 
ness wasn't  even  mysterious  any  longer.  Aunt  Isa- 
bel had  only  had  an  "upset." 

Deeply  stirred,  Missy  withdrew  her  hand. 

"I  think  I  forgot  to  open  my  bed  to  air,"  she 
said,  and  hurried  away  to  her  own  room.  But,  ob- 
livious of  the  bed,  she  stood  for  a  long  time  at  the 
window,  staring  out  at  nothing. 

Yes;  Romance  had  died  out  in  the  Middle 
Ages.  .  .  . 

She  was  still  standing  there  when  the  maid  called 
her  to  the  telephone.  It  was  Raleigh  Peters  on  the 
wire,  asking  to  take  her  to  the  dance  that  night. 
She  accepted,  but  without  enthusiasm.  Where  were 
the  thrills  she  had  expected  to  experience  while  re- 
ceiving the  homage  paid  a  visiting  girl?  He  was  just 
a  grocery  clerk  named  Peters! 

Yes;  Romance  had  died  out  in  the  Middle 
Ages.  .  .  . 

She  felt  very  blase  as  she  hung  up  the  receiver. 


In  the  Manner  of  the  Duchess 

TT  was  raining — a  gentle,  trickling  summer  rain, 
when,  under  a  heap  of  magazines  near  a  heaven- 
ly attic  window,  Missy  and  Tess  came  upon  the  pa- 
per-backed masterpieces  of  "The  Duchess." 

The  volume  Missy  chanced  first  to  select  for  read- 
ing was  entitled  "Airy  Fairy  Lilian."  The  very 
first  paragraph  was  arresting: 

Down  the  broad  oak  staircase — through  the  silent  hall — into 
the  drawing-room  runs  Lilian,  singing  as  she  goes.  The  room  is 
deserted;  through  the  half-closed  blinds  the  glad  sunshine  is 
rushing,  turning  to  gold  all  on  which  its  soft  touch  lingers,  and 
rendering  the  large,  dull,  handsome  apartment  almost  comfort- 
able .  .  . 

"  Broad     oak     staircase  "  —  "  drawing  -  room  " 
"large,  dull,  handsome  apartment" — oh,  wonderful! 
Then  on  to  the  description  of  the  alluring  heroine: 

.  .  .  the  face  is  more  than  pretty,  it  is  lovely — the  fair, 
sweet,  childish  face,  framed  in  by  its  yellow  hair;  her  great  vel- 
vety eyes,  now  misty  through  vain  longing,  are  blue  as  the 
skies  above  her;  her  nose  is  pure  Greek;  her  forehead  low,  but 
broad,  is  partly  shrouded  by  little  wandering  threads  of  gold 
that  every  now  and  then  break  loose  from  bondage,  while  her 
lashes,  long  and  dark,  curl  upward  from  her  eyes,  as  though 
hating  to  conceal  the  beauty  of  the  exquisite  azure  within.  .  .  . 
There  is  a  certain  haughtiness  about  her  that  contrasts  curious- 

138 


In  the  Manner  of  the  Duchess  139 

ly  but  pleasantly  with  her  youthful  expression  and  laughing, 
kissable  mouth.  She  is  straight  and  lissome  as  a  young  ash  tree; 
her  hands  and  feet  are  small  and  well-shaped;  in  a  word,  she  is 
chic  from  the  crown  of  her  fair  head  down  to  her  little  arched 
instep  .  .  . 

Missy  sighed;  how  wonderful  it  must  be  to  be  a 
creature  so  endowed  by  the  gods! 

Missy — Melissa — now,  at  the  advanced  age  of  fif- 
teen, had  supposed  she  knew  all  the  wonders  of 
books.  She  had  learned  to  read  the  Book  of  Life: 
its  enchantments,  so  many  and  so  varied  in  Cherry- 
vale,  had  kept  her  big  grey  eyes  wide  with  smiles  or 
wonder  or,  just  occasionally,  darkened  with  the  mys- 
tery of  sorrow.  There  was  the  reiterant  magic  of 
greening  spring;  and  the  long,  leisurely  days  of  deli- 
cious summer;  the  companionship  of  a  quaint  and 
infinitely  interesting  baby  brother,  and  of  her  own 
cat — majesty  incarnate  on  four  black  legs;  and  then, 
just  lately,  this  exciting  new  "best  friend,"  Tess 
O'Neill.  Tess  had  recently  moved  to  Cherry  vale, 
and  was  "different" — different  even  from  Kitty  Al- 
len, though  Missy  had  suffered  twinges  about  let- 
ting anyone  displace  Kitty.  But — 

And,  now,  here  it  was  in  Tess's  adorable  attic  (full 
of  treasures  discarded  by  departed  tenants  of  the 
old  Smith  place)  that  Missy  turned  one  of  Life's 
milestones  and  met  "the  Duchess." 

Missy  had  loved  to  read  the  Bible  (good  stories 
there,  and  beautiful  words  that  made  you  tingle  sol- 
emnly); and  fairy  tales  never  old;  and,  almost  best 
of  all,  the  Anthology,  full  of  poetry,  that  made  you 


140  Missy 

feel  a  strange  live  spirit  back  of  the  wind  and  a 
world  of  mysteries  beyond  the  curtain  of  the  sky. 

But  this — 

The  lure  of  letters  was  turned  loud  and  seductive 
as  the  Blue  Danube  played  on  a  golden  flute  by  a 
boy  king  with  his  crown  on! 

Tess  glanced  up  from  her  reading. 

"How's  your  book?"  she  enquired. 

"Oh,  it's  wonderful,"  breathed  Missy. 

"Mine,  too.  Here's  a  description  that  reminds 
me  a  little  of  you." 

"Me?"  incredulously. 

"Yes.  It's  about  the  heroine — Phyllis.  She's  not 
pretty,  but  she's  got  a  strange,  underlying  charm." 

Missy  held  her  breath.  She  was  ashamed  to  ask 
Tess  to  read  the  description  of  the  strangely  charm- 
ing heroine,  but  Tess  knew  what  friendship  demand- 
ed, and  read: 

"I  am  something  over  five-feet-two,  with  brown 
hair  that  hangs  in  rich  chestnut  tresses  far  below 
my  waist."1 

"Oh,"  put  in  Missy  modestly,  while  her  heart 
palpitated,  "my  hair  is  just  mouse-coloured." 

"No,"  denied  Tess  authoritatively,  "you've  got 
nut-brown  locks.  And  your  eyes,  too,  are  some- 
thing like  Phyllis's  eyes — great  grey  eyes  with  sub- 
tle depths.  Only  yours  haven't  got  saucy  hints  in 
them." 

Missy  wished  her  eyes  included  the  saucy  hints. 
However,  she  was  enthralled  by  Tess's  comparison, 
though  incomplete.  Was  it  possible  Tess  was  right? 


In  the  Manner  of  the  Duchess          141 

Missy  wasn't  vain,  but  she'd  heard  before  that  she 
had  "beautiful  eyes."  Perhaps  Tess  was  right. 
Missy  blushed  and  was  silent.  Just  then,  even  had 
she  known  the  proper  reply  to  make,  she  couldn't 
have  voiced  it.  As  "the  Duchess"  might  have 
phrased  it,  she  was  "naturally  covered  with  confu- 
sion." 

But  already  Tess  had  flitted  from  the  delightfully 
embarrassing  theme  of  her  friend's  looks. 

"Wouldn't  it  be  grand,"  she  murmured  dreamily, 
"to  live  in  England?" 

"Yes — grand,"  murmured  Missy  in  response. 

"Everything's  so — so  baronial  over  there." 

Baronial! — as  always,  Tess  had  hit  upon  the  ex- 
act word.  Missy  sighed  again.  She  had  always 
loved  Cherryvale,  always  been  loyal  to  it;  but  no 
one  could  accuse  Cherryvale  of  being  "baronial." 

That  evening,  when  Missy  went  upstairs  to  smooth 
her  "nut-brown  locks"  before  supper,  she  gazed 
about  her  room  with  an  expression  of  faint  dissatis- 
faction. It  was  an  adequate,  even  pretty  room,  with 
its  flowered  wall-paper  and  lace  curtains  and  bird's- 
eye  maple  "set";  and,  by  the  window,  a  little  drop- 
front  desk  where  she  could  sit  and  write  at  the  times 
when  feeling  welled  in  her  till  it  demanded  an  outlet. 

But,  now,  she  had  an  inner  confused  vision  of 
"lounging-chairs"  covered  with  pale-blue  satin;  of 
velvet,  spindle-legged  tables  hung  with  priceless  lace 
and  bearing  Dresden  baskets  smothered  in  flowers. 
Oh,  beautiful!  If  only  to  her,  Missy,  such  habita- 
tion might  ever  befall! 


I42  Missy 

However,  when  she  started  to  "brush  up"  her 
hair,  she  eyed  it  with  a  regard  more  favourable  than 
usual.  "Rich  chestnut  tresses!"  She  lingered  to 
contemplate,  in  the  mirror,  the  great  grey  eyes  which 
looked  back  at  her  from  their  subtle  depths.  She  had 
a  ^suspicion  the  act  was  silly,  but  it  was  satisfying. 

That  evening  at  the  supper-table  marked  the  be- 
ginning of  a  phase  in  Missy's  life  which  was  to  cause 
her  family  bewilderment,  secret  surmise,  amusement 
and  some  anxiety. 

During  the  meal  she  talked  very  little.  She  had 
learned  long  ago  to  keep  her  thoughts  to  herself,  be- 
cause old  people  seldom  understand  you.  Often 
they  ask  embarrassing  questions  and,  even  if  they 
don't  laugh  at  you,  you  have  the  feeling  they  may 
be  laughing  inside.  Her  present  thoughts  were  so 
delectable  and  engrossing  that  Missy  did  not  always 
hear  when  she  was  spoken  to.  Toward  the  end  of 
the  meal,  just  as  she  caught  herself  in  the  nick  of 
time  about  to  pour  vinegar  instead  of  cream  over 
her  berries,  mother  said: 

"Well,  Missy,  what's  the  day-dream  this  time?" 

Missy  felt  her  cheeks  "crimson  with  confusion." 
Yesterday,  at  such  a  question,  she  would  have  made 
an  evasive  answer;  but  now,  so  much  was  she  one 
with  the  charming  creature  of  her  thoughts,  she  for- 
got to  be  cautious.  She  cast  her  mother  a  pensive 
glance  from  her  great  grey  eyes. 

"I  don't  know — I  just  feel  sort  of  triste." 

"Tristy?"  repeated  her  astonished  parent,  using 
Missy's  pronunciation. 


In  the  Manner  of  the  Duchess  143 

"Yes — sad,  you  know." 

"My  goodness!    What  makes  you  sad?" 

But  Missy  couldn't  answer  that.  Unexpected 
questions  often  bring  unexpected  answers,  and  not 
till  after  she'd  made  use  of  the  effective  new  word, 
did  Missy  pause  to  ponder  whether  she  was  really 
sad  or  not.  But,  now,  she  couldn't  very  well  admit 
her  lack  of  the  emotion,  so  she  repeated  the  pensive 
glance. 

"Does  one  ever  know  why  one's  sad?"  she  asked 
in  a  bewitchingly  appealing  tone. 

"Well,  I  imagine  that  sometimes  one  does,"  put 
in  Aunt  Nettie,  drily. 

Missy  ignored  Aunt  Nettie;  often  it  was  best  to 
ignore  Aunt  Nettie — she  was  mother's  old-maid  sis- 
ter, and  she  "understood"  even  less  than  mother 
did. 

Luckily  just  then,  Marguerite,  the  coloured  hired 
girl,  came  to  clear  off  the  table.  Missy  regarded  her 
capable  but  undistinguished  figure. 

"I  wish  they  had  butlers  in  Cherryvale,"  she  ob- 
served, incautious  again. 

"Butlers! — for  mercy's  sake!"  ejaculated  Aunt 
Nettie. 

"What  books  have  you  got  out  from  the  library 
now,  Missy?"  asked  father. 

It  was  an  abrupt  change  of  topic,  but  Missy  was 
glad  of  the  chance  to  turn  from  Aunt  Nettie's  de- 
risive smile. 

"Why — let  me  see.  'David  Harum'  and  'The 
History  of  Ancient  Greece ' — that's  all  I  think.  And 


144  Missy 

oh,  yes — I  got  a  French  dictionary  on  my  way  home 
this  afternoon." 

"Oh  !  A  French  dictionary  !"  commented 
father. 

"It  isn't  books,  Horace,"  remarked  Aunt  Nettie, 
incomprehensibly.  "It's  that  O'Neill  girl." 

"What's  that  O'Neill  girl?"  demanded  Missy,  in  a 
low,  suppressed  voice. 

"Well,  if  you  ask  me,  her  head's  full  of — ' 

But  a  swift  gesture  from  mother  brought  Aunt 
Nettie  to  a  sudden  pause. 

But  Missy,  suspecting  an  implied  criticism  of  her 
friend,  began  with  hauteur: 

"I  implore  you  to  desist  from  making  any  insinu- 
ation against  Tess  O'Neill.  I'm  very  proud  to  be 
tyris  with  her!"  (Missy  made  the  climactic  word 
rhyme  with  "kiss.") 

There  was  a  little  hush  after  this  outburst  from 
the  usually  reserved  Missy.  Father  and  mother 
stared  at  her  and  then  at  each  other.  But  Aunt 
Nettie  couldn't  refrain  from  a  repetition  of  the  cli- 
mactic word- 

"E-priss!"    And  she  actually  giggled! 

At  the  sound,  Missy  felt  herself  growing  "deathly 
white,  even  to  the  lips";  yet  she  managed  to  main- 
tain a  mien  of  intense  composure. 

"What  does  that  mean,  Missy?"  queried  father. 

He  was  regarding  her  kindly,  with  no  hint  of  hid- 
den amusement.  Father  was  a  tall,  quiet  and  very 
wise  man,  and  Missy  had  sometimes  found  it  possi- 
ble to  talk  with  him  about  the  unusual  things  that 


In  the  Manner  of  the  Duchess  145 

rose  up  to  fascinate  her.  She  didn't  distrust  him  so 
much  as  most  grown-ups. 

So  she  smiled  at  him  and  said  informatively: 

"It  means  to  be  in  intense  sympathy  with." 

"Oh,  I  see.  Did  you  find  that  in  the  French  dic- 
tionary?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Well,  I  see  we'll  all  have  to  be  taking  up  foreign 
languages  if  we're  to  have  such  an  accomplished 
young  lady  in  the  house." 

He  smiled  at  her  in  a  way  that  made  her  almost 
glad,  for  a  moment,  that  he  was  her  father  instead 
of  a  Duke  who  might  surround  her  with  baronial 
magnificence.  Mother,  too,  she  couldn't  help  loving, 
though,  in  her  neat,  practical  gingham  dress,  she  was 
so  unlike  Lady  Chetwoode,  the  mother  in  "Airy 
Fairy  Lilian."  Lady  Chetwoode  wore  dainty  caps, 
all  white  lace  and  delicate  ribbon  bows  that  matched 
in  colour  her  trailing  gown.  Her  small  and  tapering 
hands  were  covered  with  rings.  She  walked  with  a 
slow,  rather  stately  step,  and  there  was  a  benignity 
about  her  that  went  straight  to  the  heart.  .  .  . 
Well,  there  was  something  about  mother,  too,  that 
went  straight  to  the  heart.  Missy  wouldn't  trade 
off  her  mother  for  the  world. 

But  when,  later,  she  wandered  into  the  front  par- 
lour, she  couldn't  help  wishing  it  were  a  "drawing- 
room."  And  when  she  moved  on  out  to  the  side 
porch,  she  viewed  with  a  certain  discontent  the 
peaceful  scene  before  her.  Usually  she  had  loved  the 
side  porch  at  the  sunset  hour:  the  close  fragrance  of 


146  Missy 

honeysuckles  which  screened  one  end,  the  stretch 
of  slick  green  grass  and  the  nasturtium  bed  aflame 
like  an  unstirring  fire,  the  trees  rustling  softly  in 
the  evening  breeze — yes,  she  loved  it  all  for  the  very 
tranquillity,  the  poignant  tranquillity  of  it. 

But  that  was  before  she  realized  there  were 
in  the  world  vast  swards  that  swept  beyond  pleasure- 
grounds  (what  were  "pleasure-grounds"?),  past 
laughing  brooklets  and  gurgling  streams,  on  to  the 
Park  where  roamed  herds  of  many-antlered  deer 
and  where  mighty  oaks  flung  their  arms  far  and  wide; 
while  mayhap,  on  a  topmost  branch,  a  crow  swayed 
and  swung  as  the  soft  wind  rushed  by,  making  an 
inky  blot  upon  the  brilliant  green,  as  if  it  were  a 
patch  upon  the  alabaster  cheek  of  some  court 
belle  .  .  . 

Oh,  enchanting! 

But  there  were  no  vast  swards  nor  pleasure- 
grounds  nor  Parks  of  antlered  deer  in  Cherryvale. 

Then  Poppylinda,  the  majestic  black  cat,  trod 
up  the  steps  of  the  porch  and  rubbed  herself  against 
her  mistress's  foot,  as  if  saying,  "Anyhow,  I'm 
here!" 

Missy  reached  down  and  lifted  Poppy  to  her  lap. 
She  adored  Poppy;  but  she  couldn't  help  reflecting 
that  a  Skye  terrier  (though  she  had  never  seen  one) 
was  a  more  distinguished  kind  of  pet  than  a  black 
cat.  A  black  cat  was — well,  bourgeois  (the  last 
rhyming  with  "boys").  Airy  fairy  Lilian's  pet  was 
a  Skye.  It  was  named  Fifine,  and  was  very  frisky. 
Lilian,  as  she  sat  exchanging  sprightly  badinage 


In  the  Manner  of  the  Duchess  147 

with  her  many  admirers,  was  wont  to  sit  with  her 
hand  perdu  beneath  the  silky  Fifine  in  her  lap. 

"No,  no,  Fifine!  Down,  sir!"  murmured  Missy 
absently. 

Poppy,  otherwise  immobile,  blinked  upward  an 
inquiring  gaze. 

"Naughty  Fifine!  You  must  not  kiss  my  fingers, 
sir!" 

Poppy  blinked  again.  Who  might  this  invisible 
Fifine  be?  Her  mistress  was  conversing  in  a  very 
strange  manner;  and  the  strangest  part  of  it  was 
that  she  was  looking  straight  into  Poppy's  own  eyes. 

Poppy  didn't  know  it,  but  her  name  was  no  longer 
Poppylinda.  It  was  Fifine. 

That  night  Missy  went  to  bed  in  her  own  little 
room  in  Cherry  vale;  but,  strange  as  it  may  seem 
to  you,  she  spent  the  hours  till  waking  far  across 
the  sea,  in  a  manor-house  in  baronial  England. 

After  that,  for  a  considerable  period,  only  the  body, 
the  husk  of  her,  resided  in  Cherryvale;  the  spirit, 
the  pulsing  part  of  her,  was  in  the  land  of  her  dreams. 
Events  came  and  passed  and  left  her  unmarked. 
Even  the  Evans  elopement  brought  no  thrill;  the 
affair  of  a  youth  who  clerks  in  a  bank  and  a  girl  who 
works  in  a  post  office  is  tame  business  to  one  who 
has  been  participating  in  the  panoplied  romances  of 
the  high-born. 

Missy  lived,  those  days,  to  dream  in  solitude  or 
to  go  to  Tess's  where  she  might  read  of  further  en- 
chantments. Then,  too,  at  Tess's,  she  had  a  con- 
fidante, a  kindred  spirit,  and  could  speak  out  of  what 


148  Missy 

was  filling  her  soul.  There  is  nothing  more  satisfying 
than  to  be  able  to  speak  out  of  what  is  filling  your 
soul.  The  two  of  them  got  to  using  a  special  parlance 
when  alone.  It  was  freely  punctuated  with  phrases 
so  wonderfully  camouflaged  that  no  Frenchman 
would  have  guessed  that  they  were  French. 

"Don't  I  hear  the  frou-frou  of  silken  skirts?"  in- 
quired Missy  one  afternoon  when  she  was  in  Tess's 
room,  watching  her  friend  comb  the  golden  tresses 
which  hung  in  rich  profusion  about  her  shoulders. 

"It's  the  mater,"  answered  Tess.  "She's  dressed 
to  pay  some  visits  to  the  gentry.  Later  she's  to  dine 
at  the  vicarage.  She's  ordered  out  the  trap,  I  be- 
lieve." 

"Oh,  not  the  governess-cart?" 

Yes,  Tess  said  it  was  the  governess-cart;  and  her 
answer  was  as  solemn  as  Missy's  question. 

It  was  that  same  "dinner"  at  the  "vicarage" — 
in  Cherryvale  one  dines  at  mid-day,  and  the  Presby- 
terian minister  blindly  believed  he  had  invited  the 
O'Neills  for  supper — that  gave  Tess  one  of  her  most 
brilliant  inspirations.  It  came  to  her  quite  suddenly, 
as  all  true  inspirations  do.  The  Marble  Hearts 
would  give  a  dinner-party! 

The  Marble  Hearts  were  Missy's  "crowd,"  thus 
named  after  Tess  had  joined  it.  Of  course,  said  Tess, 
they  must  have  a  name.  A  fascinating  fount  of  ideas 
was  Tess's.  She  declared,  now,  that  they  must 
give  a  dinner-party,  a  regular  six  o'clock  function. 
Life  for  the  younger  set  in  Cherryvale  was  so  bour- 
geois, so  ennuy6.  It  devolved  upon  herself  and  Missy 


In  the  Manner  of  the  Duchess  149 

to  elevate  it.  So,  at  the  next  meeting  of  the  crowd, 
they  would  broach  the  idea.  Then  they'd  make  all 
the  plans;  decide  on  the  date  and  decorations  and 
menu,  and  who  would  furnish  what,  and  where  the 
f$te  should  be  held.  Perhaps  Missy's  house  might 
be  a  good  place.  Yes.  Missy's  dining  room  was 
large,  with  the  porch  just  outside  the  windows — a 
fine  place  for  the  orchestra. 

Missy  listened  eagerly  to  all  the  earlier  features 
of  the  scheme — she  knew  Tess  could  carry  any  point 
with  the  crowd;  but  about  the  last  suggestion  she 
felt  misgivings.  Mother  had  very  strange,  old- 
fashioned  notions  about  some  things.  She  might  be 
induced  to  let  Missy  help  give  an  evening  dinner- 
party, though  she  held  that  fifteen-year-old  girls 
should  have  only  afternoon  parties;  but  to  be  per- 
suade/d  to  lend  her  own  house  for  the  affair — that 
would  be  an  achievement  even  for  Tess! 

However  miracles  continue  to  happen  in  this  cut- 
and-dried  world.  When  the  subject  was  broached  to 
Missy's  mother  with  carefully  considered  tact,  she 
bore  up  with  puzzling  but  heavenly  equanimity. 
She  looked  thoughtfully  at  the  two  girls  in  turn,  and 
then  gazed  out  the  window. 

"A  six  o'clock  dinner-party,  you  say  ?"she  repeated, 
her  eyes  apparently  fixed  on  the  nasturtium  bed. 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Merriam."  It  was  Tess  who  answered. 
Missy's  heart,  an  anxious  lump  in  her  throat,  hin- 
dered speech. 

"For  heaven's  sake!  What  next?"  ejaculated 
Aunt  Nettie. 


150  Missy 

Mrs.  Merriam  regarded  the  nasturtiums  for  a 
second  longer  before  she  brought  her  eyes  back  to  the 
two  young  faces  and  broke  the  tense  hush. 

"What  made  you  think  you  wanted  to  give  a 
dinner-party?" 

Oh,  rapture!  Missy's  heart  subsided  an  inch,  and 
she  drew  a  long  breath.  But  she  wisely  let  Tess  do 
the  replying. 

"Oh,  everything  in  Cherry  vale's  so  passe  and 
ennuyg.  We  want  to  do  something  novel — some- 
thing really  distingue — if  you  know  what  I  mean." 

"  I  believe  I  do,"  replied  Mrs.  Merriam  gravely. 

"Dis-tinn-gwy!"  repeated  Aunt  Nettie.  "Well,  if 
you  ask  me — "  But  Mrs.  Merriam  silenced  her 
sister  with  an  unobtrusive  gesture.  She  turned  to 
the  two  petitioners. 

"You  think  an  evening  dinner  would  be — dis- 
tinngwy?" 

"Oh,  yes — the  way  we've  planned  it  out!"  affirmed 
Tess.  She,  less  diffident  than  Missy,  was  less  re- 
served in  her  disclosures.  She  went  on  eagerly: 
"We've  got  it  all  planned  out.  Five  courses:  oyster 
cocktails;  Waldorf  salad;  veal  loaf,  Saratoga  chips, 
devilled  eggs,  dill  pickles,  mixed  pickles,  chow-chow 
and  peach  pickles;  heavenly  hash;  and  ice-cream 
with  three  kinds  of  cake.  And  small  cups  of  demi- 
tasse,  of  course." 

"Three  kinds  of  cake?" 

"Well,"  explained  Tess,  "you  see  Beula  and  Beth 
and  Kitty  all  want  cake  for  their  share — they  say 
their  mothers  won't  be  bothered  with  anything  else. 


In  the  Manner  of  the  Duchess  151 

We're    dividing  the    menu    up    between    us,    you 
know." 

"I  see.    And  what  have  you  allotted  to  Missy?" 

Missy  herself  found  courage  to  answer  this  ques- 
tion; Mother's  grave  inquiries  were  bringing  her 
intense  relief. 

"I  thought  maybe  I  could  furnish  the  heavenly 
hash,  Mother." 

"Heavenly  hash?"  Mother  looked  perplexed. 
"What's  that?" 

"I  don't  know,"  admitted  Missy.  "But  I  liked 
the  name — it's  so  alluring.  Beulah  suggested  it — 
I  guess  srie  knows  the  recipe." 

"I  think  it's  all  kinds  of  fruit  chopped  together," 
volunteered  Tess. 

"But  aren't  you  having  a  great  deal  of  fruit — 
and  pickles?"  suggested  Mrs.  Merriam  mildly. 

"Oh,  well,"  explained  Tess,  rather  grandly,  "at 
a  swell  function  you  don't  have  to  have  many  sub- 
stantial viands,  you  know." 

"Oh,  I  nearly  forgot — this  is  to  be  a  swell  func- 
tion." 

"Yes,  the  real  thing,"  said  Tess  proudly.  "Potted 
palms  and  hand-painted  place-cards  and  orchestra 
music  and  candle  shades  and  everything!" 

"Candle  shades? — won't  it  be  daylight  at  six 
o'clock?" 

"Well,  then,  we'll  pull  down  the  window  shades," 
said  Tess,  undisturbed.  "Candle-light  '11  add — " 

Aunt  Nettie,  who  couldn't  keep  still  any  longer, 
cut  in: 


152  Missy 

"Will  you  tell  me  where  you're  going  to  get  an 
orchestra?" 

"Oh,"  said  Tess,  with  an  air  of  patience,  "we're 
going  to  fix  the  date  on  a  band-practice  night.  I 
guess  they'd  be  willing  to  practice  on  your  porch 
if  we  gave  them  some  ice-cream  and  cake." 

"My  word!"  gasped  Aunt  Nettie. 

"Music  always  adds  so  much  &clat  to  an  affair," 
pursued  Tess,  unruffled. 

"The  band  practicing  '11  add  a-clatter,  all  right/' 
commented  Aunt  Nettie,  adding  a  syllable  to  Tess's 
triumphant  word. 

Missy,  visioning  the  seductive  scene  of  Tess's 
description,  did  not  notice  her  aunt's  sarcasm. 

"If  only  we  had  a  butler!"  she  murmured  dreamily. 

Aunt  Nettie  made  as  if  to  speak  again,  but  caught 
an  almost  imperceptible  signal  from  her  sister. 

"Surely,  Mary,"  she  began,  "you  don't  mean  to 
say  you're — " 

Another  almost  imperceptible  gesture. 

"Remember,  Nettie,  that  when  there's  poison  in 
the  system,  it  is  best  to  let  it  out  as  quickly  as 
possible." 

What  on  earth  was  Mother  talking  about? 

But  Missy  was  too  thrilled  by  the  leniency  of  her 
mother's  attitude  to  linger  on  any  side-question — 
anyway,  grown-ups  were  always  making  incompre- 
hensible remarks.  She  came  back  swiftly  to  the  im- 
portant issue. 

"And  may  we  really  have  the  party  here,  Mother?" 

Mother  smiled  at  her,  a  rather  funny  kind  of  smile. 


In  the  Manner  of  the  Duchess  153 

"I  guess  so — the  rest  of  us  may  as  well  have  the 
benefit." 

What  did  Mother  mean?  .    .    . 

But  oh,  rapture! 

Tess  and  Missy  wrote  the  invitations  themselves 
and  decided  to  deliver  them  in  person,  and  Missy 
had  no  more  prevision  of  all  that  decision  meant 
than  Juliet  had  when  her  mother  concluded  she  would 
give  the  ball  that  Romeo  butted  in  on. 

Tess  said  they  must  do  it  with  empressement, 
meaning  she  would  furnish  an  equipage  for  them  to 
make  their  rounds  in.  Her  father  was  a  doctor,  and 
had  turned  the  old  Smith  place  into  a  sanitarium; 
and,  to  use  the  Cherryvale  word,  he  had  several 
"  rigs."  However,  when  the  eventful  day  for  delivery 
arrived,  Tess  discovered  that  her  father  had  dis- 
appeared with  the  buggy  while  her  mother  had  "or- 
dered out"  the  surrey  to  take  some  ladies  to  a  meet- 
ing of  the  Missionary  Society. 

That  left  only  an  anomalous  vehicle,  built  some- 
what on  the  lines  of  a  victoria,  in  which  Tim,  "the 
coachman"  (in  Cherryvale  argot  known  as  "the 
hired  man"),  was  wont  to  take  convalescent  patients 
for  an  airing.  Tess  realized  the  possible  lack  of 
dignity  attendant  upon  having  to  sit  in  the  driver's 
elevated  seat;  but  she  had  no  choice,  and  consoled 
herself  by  terming  it  "the  box." 

A  more  serious  difficulty  presented  itself  in  the 
matter  of  suitable  steeds.  One  would  have  preferred 
a  tandem  of  bright  bays  or,  failing  these,  spirited 
ponies  chafing  at  the  bit  and  impatiently  tossing 


154  Missy 

their  long,  waving  manes.  But  one  could  hardly 
call  old  Ben  a  steed  at  all,  and  he  proved  the  only 
animal  available  that  afternoon.  Ben  suffered  from 
a  disability  of  his  right  rear  leg  which  caused  him 
to  raise  his  right  haunch  spasmodically  when  mov- 
ing. The  effect  was  rhythmic  but  grotesque,  much 
as  if  Ben  thought  he  was  turkey-trotting.  Other- 
wise, too,  Ben  was  unlovely.  His  feet  were  by  no 
means  dainty,  his  coat  was  a  dirty  looking  dappled- 
white,  and  his  mane  so  attenuated  it  needed  a  toupee. 
As  if  appreciating  his  defects,  Ben  wore  an  apolo- 
getic, almost  timid,  expression  of  countenance,  which 
greatly  belied  his  true  stubbornness  of  character. 

Not  yet  aware  of  the  turn-out  they  must  put  up 
with,  about  two  o'clock  that  afternoon  Missy  set 
out  for  Tess's  house.  She  departed  unobtrusively 
by  the  back  door  and  side  gate.  The  reason  for  this 
almost  surreptitious  leave-taking  was  in  the  package 
she  carried  under  her  arm.  It  held  her  mother's  best 
black  silk  skirt,  which  boasted  a  "sweep";  a  white 
waist  of  Aunt  Nettie's;  a  piece  of  Chantilly  lace 
which  had  once  been  draped  on  mother's  skirt  but 
was  destined,  to-day,  to  become  a  "mantilla";  and 
a  magnificent  "willow  plume"  snipped  from  Aunt 
Nettie's  Sunday  hat.  This  plume,  when  tacked  to 
Missy's  broad  leghorn,  was  intended  to  be  figura- 
tively as  well  as  literally  the  crowning  feature  of  her 
costume. 

Tess,  too,  had  made  the  most  of  her  mother's 
absence  at  the  Missionary  Society.  Unfortunately 
Mrs.  O'Neill  had  worn  her  black  silk  skirt,  but  her 


In  the  Manner  of  the  Duchess  155 

blue  dimity  likewise  boasted  a  "sweep."  A  bouquet 
of  artificial  poppies  (plucked  from  a  hat  of  "the 
mater's")  added  a  touch  of  colour  to  Tess's  corsage. 
And  she,  also,  had  acquired  a  "willow  plume." 

Of  course  it  was  Tess  who  had  thought  to  provide 
burnt  matches  and  an  extra  poppy — artificial.  The 
purpose  of  the  former  was  to  give  a  "shadowy  look" 
under  the  eyes;  of  the  latter,  moistened,  to  lend  a 
"rosy  flush"  to  cheek  and  lip. 

Missy  was  at  first  averse  to  these  unfamiliar  aids 
to  beauty. 

"Won't  it  make  your  face  feel  sort  of  queer — like 
it  needed  washing?"  she  demurred. 

"Don't  talk  like  a  bourgeois"  said  Tess. 

Missy  applied  the  wet  poppy. 

At  the  barn,  "the  coachman"  was  luckily  absent, 
so  Tess  could  harness  up  her  steed  without  embarrass- 
ing questions.  At  the  sight  of  the  steed  of  the  occa- 
sion, Missy's  spirits  for  a  moment  sagged  a  bit;  nor 
did  old  Ben  present  a  more  impressive  appearance 
when,  finally,  he  began  to  turkey-trot  down  Maple 
Avenue.  His  right  haunch  lifted — fell — lifted — fell, 
in  irritating  rhythm  as  his  bulky  feet  clumped  heavily 
on  the  macadam.  Tess  had  insisted  that  Missy 
should  occupy  the  driver's  seat  with  her,  though 
Missy  wanted  to  recline  luxuriously  behind,  perhaps 
going  by  home  to  pick  up  Poppy — that  is,  Fifine — 
to  hold  warm  and  perdu  in  her  lap.  But  practical 
Tess  pointed  out  that  such  an  act  might  attract  the 
attention  of  Mrs.  Merriam  and  bring  the  adventure 
to  an  end. 


156  Missy 

They  proceeded  down  Maple  Avenue.  It  was 
Tess's  intention  to  turn  off  at  Silver  Street,  to  leave 
the  first  carte  ^invitation  at  the  home  of  Mr.  Ray- 
mond Bonner.  These  documents  were  proudly 
scented  (and  incidentally  spotted)  from  Mrs. 
O'Neill's  cologne  bottle. 

Young  Mr.  Bonner  resided  in  one  of  the  hand- 
somest houses  in  Cherryvale,  and  was  himself  the 
handsomest  boy  in  the  crowd.  Besides,  he  had  more 
than  once  looked  at  Missy  with  soft  eyes — the  girls 
"teased"  Missy  about  Raymond.  It  was  fitting 
that  Raymond  should  receive  the  first  billet  doux. 
So,  at  the  corner  of  Maple  and  Silver,  Tess  pulled 
the  rein  which  should  have  turned  Ben  into  the  shady 
street  which  led  to  Raymond's  domicile.  Ben  moved 
his  head  impatiently,  and  turkey-trotted  straight 
ahead.  Tess  pulled  the  rein  more  vigorously;  Ben 
twitched  his  head  still  more  like  a  swear  word  and, 
with  a  more  pronounced  shrug  of  his  haunch,  went 
undivertingly  onward. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Missy.  "Is  Ben  a 
little-wild?" 

"No — I  don't  think  so,"  replied  Tess,  but  her  tone 
was  anxious.  "I  guess  that  it's  just  that  he's  used 
to  Tim.  Then  I'm  sort  of  out  of  practice  driving." 

"Well,  we  can  just  as  well  stop  at  Lester's  first, 
and  come  back  by  Raymond's." 

But  when  Tess  attempted  to  manoeuvre  Ben  into 
Lester's  street,  Ben  still  showed  an  inalienable  and 
masterful  preference  for  Maple  Avenue.  Doggedly 
ahead  he  pursued  his  turkey-trotting  course,  un- 


157 

mindful  of  tuggings,  coaxings,  or  threats,  till,  sud- 
denly, at  the  point  where  Maple  runs  into  the  Public 
Square,  he  made  a  turn  into  Main  so  abrupt  as  to 
s.end  the  inner  rear  wheel  up  onto  the  curb. 

"My!"  gasped  Missy,  regaining  her  balance.  "He 
is  wild,  isn't  he?  Do  you  think,  maybe — " 

She  stopped  suddenly.  In  front  of  the  Post  Office 
and  staring  at  them  was  that  new  boy  she  had  heard 
about — it  must  be  he;  hadn't  Kitty  Allen  seen  him 
and  said  he  was  a  brunette?  Even  in  her  agitated 
state  she  could  but  notice  that  he  was  of  an  unusual 
appearance — striking.  He  somewhat  resembled 
Archibald  Chesney,  one  of  airy  fairy  Lilian's  suitors. 
Like  Archibald,  the  stranger  was  tall  and  eminently 
gloomy  in  appearance.  His  hair  was  of  a  rare  black- 
ness; his  eyes  were  dark — a  little  indolent,  a  good 
deal  passionate — smouldering  eyes!  His  eyebrows 
were  arched,  which  gave  him  an  air  of  melancholy 
protest  against  the  world  in  general.  His  nose  was 
of  the  high-and-mighty  order  that  comes  under  the 
denomination  of  aquiline,  or  hooked,  as  may  suit 
you  best.  However  he  did  not  shade  his  well-cut 
mouth  with  a  heavy,  drooping  moustache  as  did 
Archibald,  for  which  variation  Missy  was  intensely 
grateful.  Despite  Lilian's  evident  taste  for  mous- 
tached  gentlemen,  Missy  didn't  admire  these  "hir- 
sute adornments.'* 

She  made  all  these  detailed  observations  in  the 
second  before  blond  Raymond  Bonner,  handsomer 
but  less  interesting-looking  than  the  stranger,  came 
out  of  the  Post  Office,  crying: 


158  Missy 

"Hello,  girls!    What's  up? — joined  the  circus?" 

This  bantering  tone,  these  words,  were  disconcert- 
ing. And  before,  during  their  relentless  progress 
down  Maple  Avenue,  the  expressions  of  certain  peo- 
ple sitting  out  on  front  porches  or  walking  along  the 
street,  had  occasioned  uncertainty  as  to  their  un- 
shadowed empressement.  Still  no  doubts  concerning 
her  own  personal  get-up  had  clouded  Missy's  mind. 
And  the  dark  Stranger  was  certainly  regarding  her 
with  a  look  of  interest  in  his  indolent  eyes.  Almost 
you  might  say  he  was  staring.  It  must  be  admira- 
tion of  her  toilette.  She  was  glad  she  was  looking 
so  well — she  wished  he  might  hear  the  frou-frou  of 
her  silken  skirt  when  she  walked! 

The  consciousness  of  her  unusually  attractive 
appearance  made  Missy's  blood  race  intoxicatingly. 
It  made  her  feel  unwontedly  daring.  She  did  an 
unwontedly  daring  thing.  She  summoned  her 
courage  and  returned  the  Strange  Boy's  stare — full. 
But  she  was  embarrassed  when  she  found  herself 
looking  away  suddenly — blushing.  Why  couldn't 
she  hold  that  gaze? — why  must  she  blush?  Had  he 
noticed  her  lack  of  savoir-faire?  More  diffidently 
she  peeped  at  him  again  to  see  whether  he  had.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  his  expression  had  altered.  It 
was  a  subtle  change;  but,  somehow,  it  made  her 
blush  again.  And  turn  her  eyes  away  again — more 
quickly  than  before.  But  there  was  a  singing  in  her 
brain.  The  dark,  interesting-looking  Stranger  liked 
her  to  look  at  him — liked  her  to  blush  and  look  away! 

She   felt   oddly   light-headed — like   someone    un- 


In  the  Manner  of  the  Duchess  159 

known  to  herself.    She  wanted  to  laugh  and  chatter 
about  she  knew  not  what.    She  wanted  to — 

But  here  certain  external  happenings  cruelly 
grabbed  her  attention.  Old  Ben,  who  had  seemed  to 
slow  down  obligingly  upon  the  girls'  greeting  of 
Raymond,  had  refused  to  heed  Tess's  tugging  effort 
to  bring  him  to  a  standstill.  To  be  sure,  he  moved 
more  slowly,  but  move  he  did,  and  determinedly; 
till — merciful  heaven! — he  came  to  a  dead  and  pur- 
poseful halt  in  front  of  the  saloon.  Not  "a  saloon," 
but  "the  saloon!" 

Now,  more  frantically  than  she  had  urged  him  to 
pause,  Tess  implored  Ben  to  proceed.  No  local 
standards  are  so  hide-bound  as  those  of  a  small  town, 
and  in  Cherryvale  it  was  not  deemed  decently  per- 
missible, but  disgraceful,  to  have  aught  to  do  with 
liquor.  "The  saloon"  was  far  from  a  "respectable" 
place  even  for  men  to  visit;  and  for  two  girls  to  drive 
up  openly — brazenly — 

"Get  up,  Ben!    Get  up!"  rang  an  anguished  duet. 

Missy  reached  over  and  helped  wallop  the  rains. 
Oh,  this  pain! — this  faintness!  She  now  compre- 
hended the  feeling  which  had  so  often  overcome  the 
fair  ladies  of  England  when  enmeshed  in  some  fright- 
ful situation.  They,  on  such  upsetting  occasions, 
had  usually  sunk  back  and  murmured: 

"Please  ring  the  bell — a  glass  of  wine!"  And 
Missy,  while  reading,  had  been  able  to  vision  herself, 
in  some  like  quandary,  also  ordering  a  "glass  of 
wine";  but,  now!  .  .  .  the  wine  was  only  too  terribly 
at  hand! 


160  Missy 

"Get  up! — there's  a  good  old  Ben!" 

"Good  old  Ben — get  up!* 

But  he  was  not  a  good  old  Ben.  He  was  a  mean 
old  Ben — mean  with  inborn,  incredibly  vicious 
stubbornness.  How  terrible  to  live  to  come  to  this! 
But  Missy  was  about  to  learn  what  a  tangled  web 
Fate  weaves,  and  how  amazingly  she  deceives  some- 
times when  life  looks  darkest.  Raymond  and  the 
Stranger  (Missy  knew  his  name  was  Ed  Brown; 
alas!  but  you  can't  have  everything  in  this  world) 
started  forth  to  rescue  at  the  same  time,  knocked  into 
each  other,  got  to  Ben's  head  simultaneously,  and 
together  tugged  and  tugged  at  the  bridle. 

Ben  stood  planted,  with  his  four  huge  feet  firmly 
set,  defying  any  force  in  heaven  or  earth  to  budge 
them.  His  head,  despite  all  the  boys  could  do, 
maintained  a  relaxed  attitude — a  contradiction  in 
terms  justified  by  the  facts — and  also  with  a  certain 
sidewise  inclination  toward  the  saloon.  It  was  almost 
as  if  he  were  watching  the  saloon  door. 

In  truth,  that  is  exactly  what  old  Ben  was  doing. 
He  was  watching  for  Tim.  Ben  had  good  reason  for 
knowing  Tim's  ways  since,  for  a  considerable  time, 
no  one  save  Tim  had  deigned  to  drive  him.  Besides 
having  a  natural  tendency  toward  being  "set  in  his 
ways,"  Ben  had  now  reached  the  time  of  life  when 
one,  man  or  beast,  is  likely  to  become  a  creature  of 
habit.  Thus  he  had  unswervingly  followed  Tim's 
route  to  Tim's  invariable  first  halt;  and  now  he 
stood  waiting  Tim's  reappearance  through  the  saloon 
door. 


In  the  Manner  of  the  Duchess  161 

Other  volunteer  assistants,  in  hordes,  hordes,  and 
laughing  as  if  this  awful  calamity  were  a  huge  joke, 
had  joined  Raymond  and  the  Other.  Missy  was 
flamingly  aware  of  them,  of  their  laughter,  their 
stares,  their  jocular  comments. 

But  they  all  achieved  nothing;  and  relief  came 
only  when  Ben's  supreme  faith  was  rewarded  when 
Tim,  who  had  been  spending  his  afternoon  off  in  his 
favourite  club,  was  attracted  from  his  checker-game 
in  the  "back  room"  by  some  hubbub  in  the  street 
and  came  inquisitively  to  the  front  door. 

Ben,  then,  pricked  his  ears  and  showed  entire 
willingness  to  depart.  Tim,  after  convincing  himself 
that  he  wasn't  drunk  and  "seeing  things,"  climbed 
up  on  the  "box";  the  two  girls,  "naturally  covered 
with  confusion,"  were  only  too  glad  to  sink  down 
unobtrusively  into  the  back  seat.  Not  till  they 
were  at  the  sanitarium  again,  did  they  remember 
the  undelivered  invitations;  but  quickly  they 
agreed  to  put  on  stamps  and  let  Tim  take  them, 
without  empressement,  to  the  Post  Office. 

All  afternoon  Missy  burned  and  chilled  in  turn. 

Oh,  it  was  too  dreadful!  What  would  people  say? 
What  would  her  parents,  should  they  hear,  do? 
And  what,  oh  what  would  the  interesting-looking 
Stranger  think?  Oh,  what  a  contretemps! 

If  she  could  have  heard  what  the  Stranger  actually 
did  say,  she  would  still  have  been  "covered  with 
confusion  " — though  of  a  more  pleasurable  kind.  He 
and  Raymond  were  become  familiar  acquaintances 
by  this  time. 


1 62  Missy 

"What's  the  matter  with  'em?"  he  had  inquired 
as  the  steed  Ben  turkey-trotted  away.  "Doing  it 
on  a  bet  or  something?" 

"Dunno,"  replied  Raymond.  "The  blonde  one's 
sort  of  bughouse,  anyway.  And  the  other  one,  Missy 
Merriam,  gets  sorta  queer  streaks  sometimes — you 
don't  know  just  what's  eating  her.  She's  sorta  funny, 
but  she's  a  peach,  all  right." 

"She  the  one  with  the  eyes?" 

Raymond  suddenly  turned  and  stared  at  the  new 
fellow. 

"Yes,"  he  assented,  almost  reluctantly. 

"Some  eyes!"  commented  the  other,  gazing  after 
the  vanishing  equipage. 

Raymond  looked  none  too  pleased.  But  it  was 
too  late,  now,  to  spike  Fate's  spinning  wheel.  Missy 
was  terribly  cast  down  by  the  afternoon's  history; 
but  not  so  cast  down  that  she  had  lost  sight  of  the 
obligation  to  invite  to  her  dinner  a  boy  who  had 
rescued  her — anyhow,  he  had  tried  to  rescue  her, 
and  that  was  the  same  thing.  So  a  carte  must  be 
issued  to  "Mr.  Ed  Brown."  After  all,  what's  in  a 
name? — hadn't  Shakespeare  himself  said  that? 

At  supper,  Missy  didn't  enjoy  her  meal.  Had 
father  or  mother  heard?  Once  she  got  a  shock: 
she  glanced  up  suddenly  and  caught  father's  eyes 
on  her  with  a  curious  expression.  For  a  second  she 
was  sure  he  knew;  but  he  said  nothing,  only  looked 
down  again  and  went  on  eating  his  chop. 

That  evening  mother  suggested  that  Missy  go  to 
bed  early. 


In  the  Manner  of  the  Duchess  163 

"You  didn't  eat  your  supper,  and  you  look  tired 
out,"  she  explained. 

Missy  did  feel  tired — terribly  tired;  but  she 
wouldn't  have  admitted  it,  for  fear  of  being  asked 
the  reason.  Did  mother,  perhaps,  know?  Missy  had 
a  teasing  sense  that,  under  the  placid,  commonplace 
conversation,  there  was  something  unspoken.  A 
curious  and  uncomfortable  feeling.  But,  then,  as 
one  ascertains  increasingly  with  every  year  one  lives, 
Life  is  filled  with  curious  and  often  uncomfortable 
feelings.  Which,  however,  one  would  hardly  change 
if  one  could,  because  all  these  things  make  Life  so 
much  more  complex,  therefore  more  interesting. 
The  case  of  Ben  was  in  point:  if  he  had  not  "cut  up," 
it  might  have  been  weeks  before  she  got  acquainted 
with  the  Dark  Stranger! 

Still  pondering  these  "deep"  things,  Missy  took 
advantage  of  her  mother's  suggestion  and  went  up 
to  undress.  She  was  glad  of  the  chance  to  be  alone. 

But  she  wasn't  to  be  alone  for  yet  a  while.  Her 
mother  followed  her  and  insisted  on  helping  unfasten 
her  dress,  turning  down  her  bed,  bringing  some 
witch-hazel  to  bathe  her  forehead — a  dozen  little 
pretexts  to  linger.  Mother  did  not  always  perform 
these  offices.  Surely  she  must  suspect.  Yet,  if  she 
did  suspect,  why  her  kindness?  Why  didn't  she 
speak  out,  and  demand  explanations? 

Mothers  are  sometimes  so  mystifying! 

The  time  for  the  good  night  kiss  came  and  went 
with  no  revealing  word  from  either  side.  The  kiss 
was  unusually  tender,  given  and  received.  Left 


164  Missy 

alone  at  last,  on  her  little,  moon-whitened  bed, 
Missy  reflected  on  her  great  fondness  for  her  mother. 
No;  she  wouldn't  exchange  her  dear  mother,  not 
even  for  the  most  aristocratic  lady  in  England. 

Then,  as  the  moon  worked  its  magic  on  her  flutter- 
ing lids,  the  flowered  wall-paper,  the  bird's-eye 
maple  furniture,  all  dissolved  in  air,  and  in  their 
place  magically  stood,  faded  yet  rich,  lounges  and 
chairs  of  velvet;  priceless  statuettes;  a  few  bits  of 
bric-a-brac  worth  their  weight  in  gold;  several  por- 
traits of  beauties  well-known  in  the  London  and 
Paris  worlds,  frail  as  they  were  fair,  false  as  they  were 
piquante;  tobacco-stands  and  meerschaum  pipes  and 
cigarette-holders;  a  couple  of  dogs  snoozing  peace- 
fully upon  the  hearth-rug;  a  writing-table  near  the 
blazing  grate  and,  seated  before  it — 

Yes!  It  was  he!  Though  the  room  was  Archibald 
Chesney's  "den,"  the  seated  figure  was  none  other 
than  Ed  Brown!  .  .  . 

A  shadow  falls  across  the  paper  on  which  he  is 
writing — he  glances  up — beholds  an  airy  fairy  vision 
regarding  him  with  a  saucy  smile — a  slight  graceful 
creature  clothed  in  shell-pink  with  daintiest  lace 
frillings  at  the  throat  and  wrists,  and  with  a  wealth 
of  nut-brown  locks  brought  low  on  her  white  brow, 
letting  only  the  great  grey  eyes  shine  out. 

"What  are  you  writing,  sir?"  she  demands,  send- 
ing him  a  bewitching  glance. 

"Only  a  response  to  your  gracious  invitation,  Lady 
Melissa,"  he  replies,  springing  up  to  kiss  her  tapering 
fingers. 


In  the  Manner  of  the  Duchess  165 

.  .  .  The  moon  seals  the  closed  eyelids  down 
with  a  kiss. 

The  day  of  days  arrived. 

Missy  got  up  while  the  rest  of  the  household  was 
still  sleeping.  For  once  she  did  not  wait  for  Poppy's 
kiss  to  awaken  her.  The  empty  bed  surprised  and 
disconcerted  Poppy — that  is,  Fifine — upon  her  ap- 
pearance. But  much,  these  days,  was  happening  to 
surprise  and  disconcert  Poppy — that  is,  Fifine. 

Fifine  finally  located  her  mistress  down  in  the  back 
parlour,  occupied  with  shears  and  a  heap  of  old  maga- 
zines. Missy  was  clipping  sketches  from  certain 
advertisements,  which  she  might  trace  upon  card- 
board squares  and  decorate  with  water-colour.  These 
were  to  be  the  "place-cards" — an  artistic  commission 
Missy  had  put  off  from  day  to  day  till,  now,  at  the 
last  minute,  she  was  constrained  to  rise  early,  with 
a  rushed  and  remorseful  feeling.  A  situation  familiar 
to  many  artists. 

She  succeeded  in  concentrating  herself  upon  the 
work  with  the  greatest  difficulty.  For,  after  break- 
fast, there  began  a  great  bustling  with  brooms  and 
carpet-sweepers  and  dusters ;  and,  no  sooner  was  the 
house  swept  than  appeared  a  gay  and  chattering 
swarm  to  garnish  it :  "  Marble  Hearts  "  with  collected 
"potted  palms"  and  "cut  flowers"  and  cheesecloth 
draperies  of  blue  and  gold — the  "club  colours"  which, 
upon  the  sudden  need  for  club  colours,  had  been  sud- 
denly adopted. 

Missy  betook  herself  to  her  room,  but  it  was  filled 


1 66  Missy 

up  with  two  of  the  girls  and  a  bolt  of  cheesecloth; 
to  the  dining  room,  but  there  was  no  inspiration  in 
the  sight  of  Marguerite  polishing  the  spare  silver; 
to  the  side  porch,  but  one  cannot  work  where  giggling 
girls  sway  and  shriek  on  tall  ladders,  hanging  paper- 
lanterns;  to  the  summerhouse,  but  even  to  this 
refuge  the  Baby  followed  her,  finally  upsetting  the 
water-colour  box. 

The  day  went  rushing  past.  Enticing  odours  arose 
from  the  kitchen.  The  grocery  wagon  came,  and 
came  again.  The  girls  went  home.  A  sketchy  lunch 
was  eaten  off  the  kitchen  table,  and  father  stayed 
down  town.  The  girls  reappeared.  They  overran 
the  kitchen,  peeling  oranges  and  pineapples  and 
bananas  for  "heavenly  hash."  Marguerite  grew 
cross.  The  Baby,  who  missed  his  nap,  grew  cross. 
And  Missy,  for  some  reason,  grew  sort  of  cross,  too; 
she  resented  the  other  girls'  unrestrainable  hilarity. 
They  wouldn't  be  so  hilarious  if  it  were  their  own 
households  they  were1  setting  topsy-turvy;  if  they 
had  sixteen  "place-cards"  yet  to  finish.  In  England, 
the  hostess's  entertainments  went  more  smoothly. 
Things  were  better  arranged  there. 

Gradually  the  girls  drifted  home  to  dress;  the 
house  grew  quiet.  Missy's  head  was  aching.  Flush- 
ed and  paint-daubed,  she  bent  over  the  "place- 
cards." 

Mother  came  to  the  door. 

"Hadn't  you  better  be  getting  dressed,  dear? — it's 
half-past  five." 

Half-past  five!     Heavens!     Missy  bent  more  fe- 


In  the  Manner  of  the  Duchess  167 

verishly  over  the  "place-cards";  there  were  still  two 
left  to  colour. 

"I'll  lay  out  your  dotted  Swiss  for  you,"  offered 
mother  kindly. 

At  this  mention  of  her  "best  dress,"  Missy  found 
time  for  a  pang  of  vain  desire.  She  wished  she  had 
a  more  befitting  dinner  gown.  A  black  velvet,  per-, 
haps;  a  "picture  dress"  with  rare  old  lace,  and  no 
other  adornment  save  diamonds  in  her  hair  and  ears 
and  round  her  throat  and  wrists. 

But,  then,  velvet  might  be  too  hot  for  August, 
She  visioned  herself  in  an  airy  creation  of  batiste — 

ivery  simple,  but  the  colour  combination  a  ravish- 
ing mingling  of  palest  pink  and  baby-blue,  with  rib- 
bons fluttering;  delicately  tinted  long  gloves;  deli- 
cately tinted  slippers  and  silken  stockings  on  her 
I  slender,  high-arched  feet;  a  few  glittering  rings  on 
her  restless  fingers;  one  blush-pink  rose  in  her  hair 
which,  simply  arranged,  suffered  two  or  three  stray 
rippling  locks  to  wander  wantonly  across  her  fore- 
head. 

"  Missy!  It's  ten  minutes  to  six !  And  you  haven't 
even  combed  your  hair!"  It  was  mother  at  the 
door  again. 

The  first  guests  arrived  before  Missy  had  got  her 
hair  "smoothed  up" — no  time,  to-night,  to  try  any 
rippling,  wanton  effects.  She  could  hear  the  swell- 
ing sound  of  voices  and  laughter  in  the  distance — 
oh,  dreadful!  Her  fingers  became  all  thumbs  as  she 
sought  to  get  into  the  dotted  swiss,  upside  down. 
Mother  came  in  just  in  time  to  extricate  her,  and 


1 68  Missy 

buttoned  the  dress  with  maddeningly  deliberate  fin* 
gers. 

"Now,  don't  fret  yourself  into  a  headache,  dear," 
she  said  in  a  voice  meant  to  be  soothing.  "The 
party  won't  run  away — just  let  yourself  relax." 

Relax! 

The  musicians,  out  on  the  side  porch,  were  al- 
ready beginning  their  blaring  preparations  when  the 
hostess,  at  last,  ran  down  the  stairs  and  into  the 
front  parlour.  Her  agitation  had  no  chance  to  sub- 
side before  they  must  file  out  to  the  dining  room. 
Missy  hadn't  had  time  before  to  view  the  complete- 
ly embellished  dining  room  and,  now,  in  all  its  glory 
and  grandeur,  it  struck  her  full  force:  the  potted 
palms  screening  the  windows  through  which  floated 
strains  of  music,  streamers  of  blue  and  gold  stretch- 
ing from  the  chandelier  to  the  four  corners  of  the 
room  in  a  sort  of  canopy,  the  long  white  table  with 
its  flowers  and  gleaming  silver — 

It  might  almost  have  been  the  scene  of  a  function 
at  Chetwoode  Manor  itself! 

In  a  kind  of  dream  she  was  wafted  to  the  head  of 
the  table;  for,  since  the  function  was  at  her  house, 
Missy  had  been  voted  the  presiding  place  of  honour. 
It  is  a  very  great  responsibility  to  sit  in  the  presid- 
ing place  of  honour.  From  that  conspicuous  posi- 
tion one  leads  the  whole  table's  activities:  convers- 
ing to  the  right,  laughing  to  the  left,  sharply  on  the 
lookout  for  any  conversational  gap,  now  and  then 
drawing  muted  t$te-d-t$tes  into  a  harmonic  unison. 
She  is,  as  it  were,  the  leader  of  an  orchestra  of  which 


In  the  Manner  of  the  Duchess  169 

the  individual  diners  are  the  subsidiary  instruments. 
Upon  her  watchful  resourcefulness  hangs  the  suc- 
cess of  a  dinner-party.  But  Missy,  though  a  trifle 
fluttered,  had  felt  no  anxiety;  she  knew  so  well  just 
how  Lady  Chetwoode  had  managed  these  things. 

The  hostess  must  also,  of  course,  direct  the  nutri- 
mental  as  well  as  the  conversational  process  of  the 
feast.  She  is  served  first,  and  takes  exactly  the  prop- 
er amount  of  whatever  viand  in  exactly  the  proper 
way  and  manipulates  it  with  exactly  the  proper  fork 
or  knife  or  spoon.  But  Missy  had  felt  no  anticipa- 
tory qualms. 

She  was  possessed  of  a  strange,  almost  a  light- 
headed feeling.  Perhaps  the  excitement  of  the  day, 
the  rush  at  the  last,  had  something  to  do  with  it. 
Perhaps  the  spectacle  of  the  long,  adorned  table,  the 
scent  of  flowers,  the  sound  of  music,  the  dark  eyes 
of  Mr.  Edward  Brown  who  was  seated  at  her  right 
hand. 

(Dear  old  faithful  Ben! — to  think  of  how  his  de- 
votion to  tippling  Tim  had  brought  Edward  Brown 
into  her  life!) 

She  felt  a  stranger  to  herself.  Something  in  her 
soared  intoxicatingly.  The  sound  of  her  own  gay 
chatter  came  to  her  from  afar — as  from  a  stranger. 
Mr.  Brown  kept  on  looking  at  her. 

The  butler  appeared,  bringing  the  oyster  cock- 
tails (a  genteel  delicacy  possible  in  an  inland  mid- 
summer thanks  to  the  canning  industry),  and  pro- 
ceeded to  serve  them  with  empressement. 

The  butler  was  really  the  climactic  triumph  of  the 


170  Missy 

event.  And  he  was  Missy's  own  inspiration.  She 
had  been  racking  her  brains  for  some  way  to  elimi- 
nate the  undistinguished  Marguerite,  to  conjure 
through  the  very  strength  of  her  desire  some  ap- 
proach to  a  proper  servitor.  If  only  they  had  one  of 
those  estimable  beings  in  Cherryvale!  A  butler, 
preferably  elderly,  and  "steeped  in  respectability" 
up  to  his  port-wine  nose;  one  who  would  hover 
around  the  table,  adjusting  this  dish  affectionately 
and  straightening  that,  and  who,  whenever  he  left 
the  room,  left  it  with  a  velvet  step  and  an  almost  in- 
audible sigh  of  satisfaction  .  .  . 

And  then,  quite  suddenly,  she  had  hit  upon  the 
idea  of  "Snowball"  Saunders.  Snowball  had  come 
to  the  house  to  borrow  the  Merriams'  ice-cream 
freezer.  There  was  to  be  an  informal  "repast"  at 
the  Shriners'  hall,  and  Snowball  engineered  all  the 
Shriners'  gustatory  festivities  from  "repasts"  to 
"banquets."  Sometimes,  at  the  banquets,  he  even 
wore  a  dress  suit.  It  was  of  uncertain  lineage  and 
too-certain  present  estate,  yet  it  was  a  dress  suit.  It 
was  the  recollection  of  the  dress  suit  that  had  given 
Missy  her  inspiration.  To  be  sure,  in  England,  but- 
lers were  seldom  "coloured,"  but  in  Cherryvale  one 
had  to  make  some  concessions. 

The  butler  was  wearing  his  dress  suit  as  he  came 
bearing  the  oyster  cocktails. 

"Hello,  Snowball!"  greeted  Raymond  Bonner, 
genially.  "Didn't  know  you  were  invited  to-night." 

Snowball! — what  a  gosherie!  With  deliberate  hau- 
teur Missy  spoke : 


In  the  Manner  of  the  Duchess  171 

"Oh,  Saunders,  don't  forget  to  fill  the  glasses  with 
ice-water." 

Raymond  cast  her  an  astonished  look,  but,  per- 
haps because  he  was  more  impressed  by  the  formal- 
ity of  the  function  than  he  would  have  admitted,  re- 
frained from  any  bantering  comment. 

The  hostess,  then,  with  a  certain  righteous 
complacence,  lowered  her  eyes  to  her  cocktail 
glass. 

Oh,  heavens! 

It  was  the  first  time,  so  carried  away  had  she 
been  with  this  new,  intoxicating  feeling,  that  she 
had  really  noticed  what  she  was  eating — how  she 
was  eating  it. 

She  was  eating  her  oysters  with  her  after-dinner  cof- 
fee spoon! 

The  tiny-pronged  oyster  fork  was  lying  there  on 
the  cloth,  untouched! 

Oh,  good  heavens! 

An  icy  chill  of  mortification  crept  down  her  spine, 
spread  out  through  her  whole  being.  She  had  made 
a  mistake — she,  the  hostess! 

A  whirlwind  of  mortal  shame  stormed  round  and 
round  within  her.  If  only  she  could  faint  dead 
away  in  her  chair!  If  only  she  could  v weep,  and 
summon  mother!  Or  die!  Or  even  if  she  could  sink 
down  under  the  table  and  hide  away  from  sight. 
But  she  didn't  know  how  to  faint;  and  hostesses  do 
not  weep  for  their  mothers;  and,  in  real  life,  people 
never  die  at  the  crucial  moments;  nor  do  they  crawl 
under  tables.  All  she  could  do  was  to  force  herseli » 


172  Missy 

at  last,  to  raise  her  stricken  eyelids  and  furtively  re- 
gard her  guests. 

Oh,  dear  heaven! 

They  were  all — all  of  them — eating  their  oyster 
cocktails  with  their  after-dinner  coffee  spoons ! 

Missy  didn't  know  why,  at  that  sight,  she  had  to 
fight  off  a  spasm  of  laughter.  She  felt  she  must 
scream  out  in  laughter,  or  die. 

All  at  once  she  realized  that  Mr.  Brown  was  speak- 
ing to  her. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  was  saying.  "Want  to 
sneeze  ? " 

That  struck  her  so  funny  that  she  laughed;  and 
then  she  felt  better. 

"I  was  just  terribly  upset,"  she  found  herself  ex- 
plaining almost  naturally,  "because  I  suddenly  found 
myself  eating  the  oyster  cocktail  with  the  coffee 
spoon." 

"Oh,  isn't  this  the  right  implement?"  queried  Mr. 
Brown,  contemplating  his  spoon.  "Well,  if  you  ask 
me,  I'm  glad  you  started  off  with  it — this  soupy 
stuff'd  be  the  mischief  to  get  away  with  with  a  fork." 

Archibald  Chesney  wouldn't  have  talked  that 
way.  But,  nevertheless,  Missy  let  her  eyelids  lift  up 
at  him  in  a  smile. 

"I'm  glad  you  didn't  know  it  was  a  mistake,"  she 
murmured.  "I  was  terribly  mortified." 

"Girls  are  funny,"  Mr.  Brown  replied  to  that. 
"Always  worrying  over  nothing."  He  returned  her 
smile.  "But  you  needn't  ever  worry." 

What  did  he  mean  by  that?    But  something  in  his 


In  the  Manner  of  the  Duchess  173 

dark  eyes,  gazing  at  her  full,  kept  Missy  from  asking 
the  question,  made  her  swiftly  lower  her  lashes. 

"I  bet  you  could  start  eating  with  a  toothpick 
and  get  away  with  it,"  he  went  on. 

Did  he  mean  her  social  savoir-faire — or  did  he 
mean — 

Just  then  the  butler  appeared  at  her  left  hand  to 
remove  the  cocktail  course.  She  felt  emboldened  to 
remark,  with  an  air  of  ease: 

"Oh,  Saunders,  don't  forget  to  lay  the  spoons 
when  you  serve  the  demi-tasses." 

Mr.  Brown  laughed. 

"Oh,  say!"  he  chortled,  "you  are  funny  when  you 
hand  out  that  highfalutin  stuff!" 

No;  he  surely  hadn't  meant  admiration  for  her 
savoir-faire;  yet,  for  some  reason,  Missy  didn't  feel 
disappointed.  She  blushed,  and  found  it  entranc- 
ingly  difficult  to  lift  her  eyelids. 

The  function,  rather  stiffly  and  quite  impressively, 
continued  its  way  without  further  contretemps.  It 
was,  according  to  the  most  aristocratic  standards, 
highly  successful.  To  be  sure,  after  the  guests  had 
filed  solemnly  from  the  table  and  began  to  dance  on 
the  porches,  something  of  the  empressement  died 
away;  but  Missy  was  finding  Mr.  Brown  too  good  a 
dancer  to  remember  to  be  critical.  She  forgot  alto- 
gether, now,  to  compare  him  with  the  admired  Archi- 
bald. 

Missy  danced  with  Mr.  Brown  so  much  that  Ray- 
mond Bonner  grew  openly  sulky.  Missy  liked  Ray- 
mond, and  she  was  sure  she  would  never  want  to 


174  Missy 

do  anything  unkind — yet  why,  at  the  obvious  ill 
temper  of  Raymond  Bonner,  did  she  feel  a  strange 
little  delicious  thrill? 

Oh,  she  was  having  a  glorious  time! 

Once  she  ran  across  father,  lurking  unobtrusively 
in  a  shadowed  corner. 

"Well,"  he  remarked,  "I  see  that  Missy's  come 
back  for  a  breathing-spell." 

Just  what  did  father  mean  by  that? 

But  she  was  having  too  good  a  time  to  wonder  long. 
Too  good  a  time  to  remember  whether  or  not  it  was 
in  the  baronial  spirit.  She  was  entirely  uncritical 
when,  the  time  for  good  nights  finally  at  hand,  Mr. 
Brown  said  to  her: 

"Well,  a  fine  time  was  had  by  all!  I  guess  I  don't 
have  to  tell  you  that — what?" 

Archibald  Chesney  would  never  have  put  it  that 
way.  Yet  Missy,  with  Mr.  Brown's  eyes  upon  her 
in  an  openly  admiring  gaze,  wouldn't  have  had 
him  changed  one  bit. 

But,  when  at  last  sleep  came  to  her  in  her  little 
white  bed,  on  the  silvery  tide  of  the  moon,  it  carried 
a  dream  to  slip  up  under  the  tight-closed  eyes.  .  .  . 

The  ball  is  at  its  height.  The  door  of  the  con- 
servatory opens  and  a  fair  young  creature  steals  in. 
She  is  fairer  than  the  flowers  themselves  as,  with  a 
pretty  consciousness  of  her  own  grace,  she  advances 
into  the  bower.  Her  throat  is  fair  and  rounded  under 
the  diamonds  that  are  no  brighter  than  her  own  great 
grey  eyes;  her  nut-brown  locks  lie  in  heavy  masses 


In  the  Manner  of  the  Duchess  175 

on  her  well-shaped  head,  while  across  her  forehead  a 
few  rebellious  tresses  wantonly  wander. 

She  suddenly  sees  in  the  shadows  that  other 
figure  which  has  started  perceptibly  at  her  entrance; 
a  tall  and  eminently  gloomy  figure,  with  hair  of  a 
rare  blackness,  and  eyes  dark  and  insouciant  but 
admiring  withal. 

With  a  silken  frou-frou  she  glides  toward  him, 
happy  and  radiant,  for  she  is  in  her  airiest  mood  to- 
night. 

"Is  not  my  dress  charming,  Mr.  Brown?'*  she  cries 
with  charming  naivett.  "Does  it  not  become  me?" 

"It  is  as  lovely  as  its  wearer,"  replied  the  other, 
with  a  suppressed  sigh. 

"Pouf!  What  a  simile!  Who  dares  compare  me 
with  a  paltry  gown?" 

Then,  laughing  at  his  discomfiture,  the  coquette, 
with  slow  nonchalance,  gathers  up  her  long  train. 

"But  I'll  forgive  you — this  once,"  she  concedes, 
"for  there  is  positively  no  one  to  take  poor  little 
me  back  to  the  ballroom." 

And  Lady  Melissa  slips  her  hand  beneath  Mr. 
Brown's  arm,  and  glances  up  at  him  with  laughing, 
friendly  eyes.  .  .  . 


VI 

Influencing  Arthur 

one  in  Cherryvale  ever  got  a  word  from  Melissa 
about  the  true  inwardness  of  the  spiritual 
renaissance  she  experienced  the  winter  that  the 
Reverend  MacGill  came  to  the  Methodist  church; 
naturally  not  her  father  nor  mother  nor  Aunt  Nettie, 
because  grown-ups,  though  nice  and  well-meaning, 
with  their  inability  to  "understand,"  and  their 
tendency  to  laugh  make  one  feel  shy  and  reticent 
about  the  really  deep  and  vital  things.  And  not  even 
Tess  O'Neill,  Missy's  chum  that  year,  a  lively,  in- 
genious, and  wonderful  girl,  was  in  this  case  clever 
enough  to  obtain  complete  confidence. 

Once  before  Missy  had  felt  the  flame  divine — a 
deep,  vague  kind  of  glow  all  subtly  mixed  up  with 
"One  Sweetly  Solemn  Thought"  and  such  slow, 
stirring,  minor  harmonies,  and  with  sunlight  stealing 
through  the  stained-glass  window  above  the  pulpit 
in  colourful  beauty  that  pierced  to  her  very  soul.  But 
that  was  a  long  time  ago,  when  she  was  a  little  thing 
— only  ten.  Now  she  was  nearly  sixteen.  Things 
were  different.  One  now  was  conscious  of  the  reality 
of  inward  inexperiences:  these  must  influence  life — 
one's  own  and,  haply,  the  lives  of  others.  What 

176 


Influencing  Arthur  177 

Missy  did  not  emphasize  in  her  mind  was  the  mystery 
of  how  piety  evolved  from  white  fox  furs  and  white 
fox  furs  finally  evolved  from  piety.  But  she  did 
perceive  that  it  would  be  hopeless  to  try  to  explain 
her  motives  about  Arthur  as  mixed  up  with  the 
acquisition  of  the  white  fox  furs.  .  .  No;  not  even 
Tess  O'Neill  could  have  grasped  the  true  inwardness 
of  it  all. 

It  all  began,  as  nearly  as  one  could  fix  on  a  concrete 
beginning,  with  Genevieve  Hicks's  receiving  a  set 
of  white  fox  furs  for  Christmas.  The  furs  were  soft 
and  silky  and  luxurious,  and  Genevieve  might  well 
have  been  excused  for  wearing  them  rather  trium- 
phantly. Missy  wasn't  at  all  envious  by  nature  and 
she  tried  to  be  fair-minded  in  this  case,  but  she 
couldn't  help  begrudging  Genevieve  her  regal  air. 
Genevieve  had  paraded  her  becoming  new  finery 
past  the  Merriam  residence  on  several  Sunday  after- 
noons, but  this  wasn't  the  entire  crux  of  Missy's 
discontent.  Genevieve  and  the  white  fox  furs  were 
escorted  by  Arthur  Summers. 

Now,  Arthur  had  more  than  once  asked  Missy 
herself  to  "go  walking"  on  Sunday  afternoons.  But 
Mrs.  Merriam  had  said  Missy  was  too  young  for 
such  things.  And  when  Missy,  in  rebuttal,  once 
pointed  out  the  promenading  Genevieve,  Mrs. 
Merriam  had  only  replied  that  Genevieve's  mother 
ought  to  know  better — that  Genevieve  was  a  frivo- 
lous-minded girl,  anyway. 

Missy,  peering  through  the  parlour  lace  curtains, 
made  no  answer;  but  she  thought: 


178  Missy 

"Bother!    Everybody  can  go  walking  but  me!" 

Then  she  thought: 

"She's  laughing  awful  loud.  She  is  frivolous- 
minded." 

Then: 

"He  looks  as  if  he's  having  a  good  time,  too;  he's 
laughing  back  straight  at  her.  I  wonder  if  he  thinks 
she's  very  pretty." 

And  then: 

"I  wish  /  had  some  white  fox  furs." 

That  evening  at  the  supper-table  Missy  voiced 
her  desire.  There  were  just  the  four  of  them  at  the 
table — father,  mother,  Aunt  Nettie  and  herself. 
Missy  sat  silent,  listening  to  the  talk  of  the  grown- 
ups; but  their  voices  floated  to  her  as  detached, 
far-off  sounds,  because  she  was  engrossed  in  looking 
at  a  mental  picture;  a  red-haired,  laughing,  admir- 
ing-eyed boy  walking  along  beside  a  girl  in  white  fox 
furs — and  the  girl  was  not  Genevieve  Hicks.  The 
delights  of  the  vision  must  have  reflected  in  her  face 
because  finally  her  father  said: 

"Well,  Missy,  what's  all  the  smiling  about?" 

Missy  blushed  as  if  she'd  been  caught  in  mischief; 
but  she  answered,  wistfully  rather  than  hopefully: 

"I  was  just  thinking  how  nice  it  would  be  if  I  had 
some  white  fox  furs." 

"  For  heaven's  sake !"  commented  mother.  "When 
you've  already  got  a  new  set  not  two  months  old !" 

Missy  didn't  reply  to  that;  she  didn't  want  to  seem 
unappreciative.  It  was  true  she  had  a  new  set,  warm 
and  serviceable,  but — well,  a  short-haired,  dark- 


Influencing  Arthur  179 

brown  collarette  hasn't  the  allure  of  a  fluffy,  snow- 
white  boa. 

Mother  was  going  on:  "That  ought  to  do  you  two 
winters  at  least — if  not  three." 

"I  don't  know  what  the  present  generation  is 
coming  to,"  put  in  Aunt  Nettie  with  what  seemed 
to  Missy  entire  irrelevance.  Aunt  Nettie  was  a 
spinster,  even  older  than  Missy's  mother,  and  her 
lack  of  understanding  and  her  tendency  to  criticize 
and  to  laugh  was  especially  dreaded  by  her  niece. 
"Nowadays  girls  still  in  knee-skirts  expect  to  dress 
and  act  like  society  belles!" 

"I  wasn't  expecting  the  white  fox  furs,"  said  Missy 
defensively.  "I  was  just  thinking  how  nice  it  would 
be  to  have  them."  She  was  silent  a  moment,  then 
added:  "I  think  if  I  had  some  white  fox  furs  I'd  be 
the  happiest  person  in  the  world." 

"That  doesn't  strike  me  as  such  a  large  order  for 
complete  happiness,"  observed  father,  smiling  at  her. 

Missy  smiled  back  at  him.  In  another  these  words 
might  have  savoured  of  irony,  but  Missy  feared  irony 
from  her  father  less  than  from  any  other  old  person. 
Father  was  a  big,  silent  man  but  he  was  always  kind 
and  particularly  lovable;  and  he  "understood" 
better  than  most  "old  people." 

"What  is  the  special  merit  of  these  white  fox  furs  ?" 
he  went  on,  and  something  in  the  indulgent  quality 
of  his  tone,  something  in  the  expression  of  his  eyes, 
made  hope  stir  timidly  to  birth  in  her  bosom  and  rise 
to  shine  from  her  eyes. 

But  before  she  could  answer,  mother  spoke. 


1 80  Missy 

"I  can  tell  you  that.  That  flighty  Hicks  girl  went 
by  here  this  afternoon  wearing  some.  That  Summers 
boy  who  clerks  in  Picker's  grocery  was  with  her.  He 
once  wanted  Missy  to  go  walking  with  him  and  I 
had  to  put  my  foot  down.  She  doesn't  seem  to 
realize  she's  too  young  for  such  things.  Her 
brown  furs  will  do  her  for  this  season — and  next 
season  too!" 

Mother  put  on  a  stern,  determined  kind  of  look, 
almost  hard.  Into  the  life  of  every  woman  who  is  a 
mother  there  comes  a  time  when  she  learns,  suddenly, 
that  her  little  girl  is  trying  not  to  be  a  little  girl  any 
longer  but  to  become  a  woman.  It  is  a  hard  moment 
for  mothers,  and  no  wonder  that  they  seem  lin- 
warrantedly  adamantine.  Mrs.  Merriam  instinct- 
ively knew  that  wanting  furs  and  wanting  boys 
spelled  the  same  evil.  But  Missy,  who  was  fifteen 
instead  of  thirty-seven  and  whose  emotions  and 
desires  were  still  as  hazy  and  uncorrelated  as  they 
were  acute,  stared  with  bewildered  hurt  at  this  un- 
just harshness  in  her  usually  kind  parent. 

Then  she  turned  large,  pleading  eyes  upon  her 
father;  he  had  shown  a  dawning  interest  in  the 
subject  of  white  fox  furs.  But  Mr.  Merriam,  now, 
seemed  to  have  lost  the  issue  of  furs  in  the  newer 
issue  of  boys. 

"What's  this  about  the  Summers  boy?"  he  de- 
manded. "It's  the  first  I've  ever  heard  of  this 
business." 

"He  only  wanted  me  to  go  walking,  father.  All 
the  rest  of  the  girls  go  walking  with  boys." 


Influencing  Arthur  181 

"Indeed!  Well,  you  wont.  Nor  for  a  good  many 
years!" 

Such  unexpected  shortness  and  sharpness  from 
father  made  her  feel  suddenly  wretched;  he  was  even 
worse  than  mother. 

"Who  is  he,  anyway?"  he  exploded  further. 

Missy's  lips  were  twitching  inexplicably;  she 
feared  to  essay  speech,  but  it  was  mother  who 
answered. 

"He's  that  red-headed  boy  who  clerks  in  Picker's 
grocery." 

"Arthur's  a  nice  boy,"  Missy  then  attempted 
courageously.  "I  don't  think  he  ought  to  be  blamed 
just  because  he's  poor  and — " 

Her  defence  ended  ignominiously  in  a  choking 
sound.  She  wasn't  one  who  cried  easily  and  this 
unexpected  outburst  amazed  herself;  she  could  not, 
to  have  saved  her  life,  have  told  why  she  cried. 

Her  father  reached  over  and  patted  her  hand. 

"I'm  not  blaming  him  because  he's  poor,  daughter. 
It's  just  that  I  don't  want  you  to  start  thinking 
about  the  boys  for  a  long  while  yet.  Not  about 
Arthur  or  any  other  boy.  You're  just  a  little  girl." 

Missy  knew  very  well  that  she  was  not  "just  a 
little  girl,"  but  she  knew,  too,  that  parents  nourish 
many  absurd  ideas.  And  though  father  was  now 
absurd,  she  couldn't  help  feeling  tender  toward  him 
when  he  called  her  "daughter"  in  that  gentle  tone. 
So,  sighing  a  secret  little  sigh,  she  smiled  back  at 
him  a  misty  smile  which  he  took  for  comprehension 
and  a  promise. 


1 82  Missy 

The  subject  of  white  fox  furs  seemed  closed;  Missy 
was  reluctant  to  re-open  it  because,  in  some  intangi- 
ble way,  it  seemed  bound  up  with  the  rather  awkward 
subject  of  Arthur. 

After  supper  father  conversed  with  her  about  a 
piece  she  was  reading  in  the  Sunday  Supplement, 
and  seemed  anxious  to  make  her  feel  happy  and 
contented.  So  softened  was  he  that,  when  Tess  tele- 
phoned and  invited  Missy  to  accompany  the  O'Neill 
family  to  the  Methodist  church  that  evening,  he 
lent  permission  to  the  unusual  excursion. 

The  unusualness  of  it — the  Merriams  performed 
their  Sabbath  devotions  at  n  A.M. — served  to  give 
Missy  a  greater  thrill  than  usually  attends  going 
to  church.  Besides,  since  the  Merriams  were  Presby- 
terians, going  to  the  Methodist  church  held  a  certain 
novelty — savouring  of  entertainment — and  diversion 
from  the  same  old  congregation,  the  same  old  church 
choir,  and  the  same  old  preacher.  In  literal  truth, 
also,  the  new  Methodist  preacher  was  not  old;  he 
was  quite  young.  Missy  had  already  heard  reports 
of  him.  Some  of  the  Methodist  girls  declared  that 
though  ugly  he  was  perfectly  fascinating;  and 
grandpa  and  grandma  Merriam,  who  were  Metho- 
dists (as  had  been  her  own  father  before  he  married 
mother,  a  Presbyterian),  granted  that  he  was  human 
as  well  as  inspired. 

As  Missy  entered  the  Methodist  church  that  eve- 
ning with  the  O'Neills,  it  didn't  occur  to  her  memory 
that  it  was  in  this  very  edifice  she  had  once  felt  the 
flame  divine.  It  was  once  when  her  mother  was  away 


Influencing  Arthur  183 

visiting  and  her  less  rigidly  strict  grandparents  had 
let  her  stay  up  evenings  and  attend  revival  meetings 
with  them.  But  all  that  had  happened  long  ago — 
five  years  ago,  when  she  was  a  little  thing  of  ten. 
One  forgets  much  in  five  years.  So  she  felt  no  stir  of 
memory  and  no  presentiment  of  a  coincidence  to 
come. 

Reverend  MacGill,  the  new  minister,  at  first  dis- 
appointed her.  He  was  tall  and  gaunt;  and  his  face 
was  long  and  gaunt,  lighted  with  deep-set,  smoulder- 
ing, dark  eyes  and  topped  with  an  unruly  thatch 
of  dark  hair.  Missy  thought  him  terribly  ugly  until 
he  smiled,  and  then  she  wasn't  quite  so  sure.  As 
the  sermon  went  on  and  his  harsh  but  flexible  voice 
mounted,  now  and  then,  to  an  impassioned  height, 
she  would  feel  herself  mounting  with  it;  then  when 
it  fell  again  to  calmness,  she  would  feel  herself  falling, 
too.  She  understood  why  grandma  called  him 
"inspired."  And  once  when  his  smile,  on  one  of  its 
sudden  flashes  from  out  that  dark  gauntness  of  his 
face,  seemed  aimed  directly  at  her  she  felt  a  quick, 
responsive,  electric  thrill.  The  Methodist  girls  were 
right — he  was  fascinating. 

She  didn't  wait  until  after  the  service  to  express 
her  approbation  to  Tess — anyway,  to  fifteen-year-old 
surreptitiousness  seems  to  add  zest  to  any  communi- 
cation. She  tore  a  corner  from  the  hymnal  fly-leaf 
and  scribbled  her  verdict  while  the  elder  O'Neills 
and  most  of  the  old  people  were  kneeling  in  prayer. 
Assuring  herself  that  all  nearby  heads  to  be  dreaded 
were  reverentially  bent,  she  passed  the  missive.  As 


184  Missy 

she  did  so  she  chanced  to  glance  up  toward  the 
minister. 

Oh,  dear  heaven!  He  was  looking  straight  down 
at  her.  He  had  seen  her — the  O'Neill  pew  was  only 
three  rows  back.  It  was  too  awful.  What  would  he 
think  of  her?  An  agony  of  embarrassment  and 
shame  swept  over  her. 

And  then — could  she  believe  her  eyes? — right  in 
the  midst  of  his  prayer,  his  harshly  melodious  voice 
rising  and  falling  with  never  a  break — the  Reverend 
MacGill  smiled.  Smiled  straight  at  her — there 
could  be  no  mistake.  And  a  knowing,  sympathetic, 
understanding  kind  of  smile!  Yes,  he  was  human. 

She  liked  him  better  than  she  had  ever  thought  it 
possible  to  like  a  minister — especially  an  ugly  one, 
and  one  whom  she'd  never  "met." 

But  after  service  she  "met"  him  at  the  door, 
where  he  was  standing  to  shake  hands  with  the 
departing  worshippers.  As  Mrs.  O'Neill  introduced 
her,  rather  unhappily,  as  "one  of  Tess's  little 
friends,"  he  flashed  her  another  smile  which  said, 
quite  plainly:  "I  saw  you  up  to  your  pranks,  young 
lady!"  But  it  was  not  until  after  Dr.  and  Mrs. 
O'Neill  had  passed  on  that  he  said  aloud:  "That 
was  all  right — all  I  ask  is  that  you  don't  look  so 
innocent  when  your  hands  are  at  mischief." 

Oh,  she  adored  his  smile! 

The  following  Sunday  evening  she  was  invited  to 
the  O'Neills'  for  supper,  and  the  Reverend  MacGill 
was  invited  too.  The  knowledge  of  this  interesting 
meeting  impending  made  it  possible  for  her  to  view 


Influencing  Arthur  185 

Genevieve  and  Arthur,  again  out  on  a  Sunday  after- 
noon stroll,  with  a  certain  equanimity.  Genevieve, 
though  very  striking  and  vivacious  in  her  white  fox, 
was  indubitably  a  frivolous-minded  girl;  she,  Missy, 
was  going  to  eat  supper  with  the  Reverend  MacGill. 
Of  course  white  fox  furs  were  nice,  and  Arthur's 
eyelashes  curled  up  in  an  attractive  way,  but  there 
are  higher,  more  ennobling  things  in  life. 

The  Reverend  MacGill  did  not  prove  disappoint- 
ing on  closer  acquaintance.  Grandpa  said  he  knew 
everything  there  is  to  know  about  the  Bible,  but 
the  Reverend  MacGill  did  not  talk  about  it.  In  a 
way  this  was  a  pity,  as  his  talk  might  have  been 
instructive,  but  he  got  Tess  and  Missy  to  talking 
about  themselves  instead.  Not  in  the  way  that 
makes  you  feel  uncomfortable,  as  many  older  people 
do,  but  just  easy,  chatty,  laughing'comradeship.  You 
could  talk  to  him  almost  as  though  he  were  a  boy  of 
the  "crowd." 

It  developed  that  the  Reverend  MacGill  was  plan- 
ning a  revival.  He  said  he  hoped  that  Tess  and  Missy 
would  persuade  all  their  young  friends  to  attend. 
As  Missy  agreed  to  ally  herself  with  his  crusade,  she 
felt  a  sort  of  lofty  zeal  glow  up  in  her.  It  was  a 
pleasantly  superior  kind  of  feeling.  If  one  can't 
be  fashionable  and  frivolous  one  can  still  be  pious. 

In  this  noble  missionary  spirit  she  managed  to  be 
in  the  kitchen  the  next  time  Arthur  delivered  the 
groceries  from  Picker's.  She  asked  him  to  attend 
the  opening  session  of  the  revival  the  following 
Sunday  night.  Arthur  blushed  and  stammered  a 


1 86  Missy 

little,  so  that,  since  Arthur  wasn't  given  to  embar- 
rassment, Missy  at  once  surmised  he  had  a  "date." 
Trying  for  an  impersonal  yet  urbane  and  hospitable 
manner,  she  added: 

"Of  course  if  you  have  an  engagement,  we  hope 
you'll  feel  free  to  bring  any  of  your  friends  with 
you." 

"Well,"  admitted  Arthur,  "y°u  see  the  fact  is 
I  have  got  a  kind  of  date.  Of  course  if  I'd 
known — " 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  she  cut  in  with  magnificent 
ease.  "  I  wasn't  asking  you  to  go  with  me.  Reverend 
MacGill  just  appointed  me  on  a  kind  of  informal 
committee,  you  know — I'm  asking  Raymond  Bonner 
and  all  the  boys  of  the  crowd." 

"You  needn't  rub  it  in — I  get  you.  Swell  chance 
of  you  ever  wanting  to  make  a  date!" 

His  sulkiness  of  tone,  for  some  reason,  gratified 
her.  Her  own  became  even  more  gracious  as  she 
said  again:  "We  hope  you  can  come.  And  bring 
any  of  your  friends  you  wish." 

She  was  much  pleased  with  this  sustained  anonym- 
ity she  had  given  Genevieve. 

When  the  opening  night  of  the  Methodist  revival 
arrived,  most  of  the  "crowd"  might  have  been  seen 
grouped  together  in  one  of  the  rearmost  pews  of 
the  church.  Arthur  and  Genevieve  were  there, 
Genevieve  in  her  white  fox  furs,  of  course.  She  was 
giggling  and  making  eyes  as  if  she  were  at  a  party 
or  a  movie  show  instead  of  in  church.  Missy — who 
had  had  to  do  a  great  deal  of  arguing  in  order  to  be 


Influencing  Arthur  187 

present  with  her,  so  to  speak,  guests — preserved  a 
calm,  sweet,  religious  manner;  it  was  far  too  relent- 
lessly Christian  to  take  note  of  waywardness.  But 
the  way  she  hung  on  the  words  of  the  minister, 
joined  in  song,  bowed  her  head  in  prayer,  should 
have  been  rebuke  enough  to  any  light  conduct.  It 
did  seem  to  impress  Arthur;  for,  looking  at  her  up- 
lifted face  and  shining  eyes,  as  in  her  high,  sweet 
treble,  she  sang,  "Throw  Out  the  Life-Line,"  he 
lost  the  point  of  one  of  Genevieve's  impromptu 
jokes  and  failed  to  laugh  in  the  right  place.  Gene- 
vieve  noticed  his  lapse.  She  also  noticed  the  reason. 
She  herself  was  not  a  whit  impressed  by  Missy's 
devotions,  but  she  was  unduly  quiet  for  several 
minutes.  Then  she  stealthily  tore  a  bit  of  leaf  from 
her  hymnal — the  very  page  on  which  she  and  other 
frail  mortals  were  adjured  to  throw  out  life-lines — 
and  began  to  fashion  it  into  a  paper-wad. 

The  service  had  now  reached  the  stage  of  prayer 
for  repentant  sinners.  Reverend  MacGill  was  doing 
the  praying,  but  members  of  the  congregation  were 
interjecting,  "Glory  Hallelujah!"  "Praise  be  His 
Name!"  and  the  other  worshipful  ejaculations  which 
make  a  sort  of  running  accompaniment  on  such  occa- 
sions. Missy  thought  the  interruptions,  though 
proper  and  lending  an  atmosphere  of  fervour,  rather  a 
pity  because  they  spoiled  the  effective  rise  and  fall 
of  the  minister's  voice.  There  was  one  recurrent 
nasal  falsetto  which  especially  threw  you  off  the 
religious  track.  It  belonged  to  old  Mrs.  Lemon. 
Everybody  knew  she  nagged  at  and  overworked  and 


1 88  Missy 

half-starved  that  ragged  little  Sims  orphan  she'd 
adopted,  but  here  she  was  making  the  biggest  noise 
of  all! 

However,  much  as  she  wished  old  Mrs.  Lemon  to 
stop,  Missy  could  not  approve  of  what  she,  just  then, 
saw  take  place  in  her  own  pew. 

Genevieve  was  whispering  and  giggling  again. 
Missy  turned  to  look.  Genevieve  pressed  a  paper- 
wad  into  Arthur's  hand,  whispered  and  giggled  some 
more.  And  then,  to  Missy's  horror,  Arthur  took 
surreptitious  but  careful  aim  with  the  wad.  It 
landed  squarely  on  old  Mrs.  Lemon's  ear,  causing  a 
"  Blessed  be  the  Lo — "  to  part  midway  in  scandalized 
astonishment.  Missy  herself  was  scandalized.  Of 
course  old  Mrs.  Lemon  was  a  hypocrite — but  to  be 
hit  on  the  ear  while  the  name  of  the  Saviour  was  on 
her  lips!  Right  on  the  ear!  Missy  couldn't  help 
mentally  noting  Arthur's  fine  marksmanship,  but  she 
felt  it  her  duty  to  show  disapproval  of  a  deed  so 
utterly  profane. 

She  bestowed  an  openly  withering  look  on  the 
clesecrators. 

-     "She  dared  me  to,"  whispered  Arthur — the  excuse 
of  the  original  Adam. 

Without  other  comment  Missy  returned  her  stern 
gaze  to  the  pulpit.  She  held  it  there  steadfast  though 
she  was  conscious  of  Genevieve,  undaunted,  urging 
Arthur  to  throw  another  wad.  He,  however,  refused. 
That  pleased  Missy,  for  it  made  it  easier  to  fix  the 
blame  for  the  breach  of  religious  etiquette  upon 
Genevieve  alone.  Of  course,  it  was  Genevieve  who 


Influencing  Arthur  189 

was  really  to  blame.  She  was  a  frivolous,  light- 
minded  girl.  She  was  a  bad  influence  for  Arthur. 

Yet,  when  it  came  time  for  the  "crowd"  to  dis- 
perse and  Arthur  told  her  good  night  as  though 
nothing  had  happened,  Missy  deemed  it  only  con- 
sistent with  dignity  to  maintain  extreme  reserve. 

"Oh,  fudge,  Missy!  Don't  be  so  stand-offish!" 
Arthur  was  very  appealing  when  he  looked  at  you 
like  that — his  eyes  so  mischievous  under  their  up- 
curling  lashes.  But  Missy  made  herself  say  firmly: 

"You  put  me  in  a  rather  awkward  position,  Ar- 
thur. You  know  Reverend  MacGill  entrusted  me 


"Oh,  come  out  of  it!"  interrupted  Arthur,  grin- 
ning. 

Missy  sighed  in  her  heart.  She  feared  Arthur  was 
utterly  unregenerate.  Especially,  when  as  he  turned 
to  Genevieve — who  was  tugging  at  his  arm — he  gave 
the  Reverend  MacGill's  missionary  an  open  wink. 
Missy  watched  the  white  fox  furs,  their  light-minded 
wearer  and  her  quarry  all  depart  together;  com- 
miseration for  the  victim  vied  with  resentment 
against  the  temptress.  Poor  Arthur! 

She  herself  expected  to  be  taken  home  by  the 
O'Neills,  but  to  her  surprise  she  found  her  father 
waiting  in  the  church  vestibule.  He  said  he  had  de- 
cided to  come  and  hear  the  new  minister,  and  Missy 
never  suspected  it  was  the  unrest  of  a  father  who 
sees  his  little  girl  trying  to  become  a  big  girl  that 
had  dragged  him  from  his  house-slippers  and  smok- 
ing-jacket  this  snowy  evening. 


190  Missy 

They  walked  homeward  through  the  swirling  flakes 
in  silence.  That  was  one  reason  why  Missy  enjoyed 
being  with  her  father — she  could  be  so  companion- 
ably  silent  with  him.  She  trudged  along  beside  him, 
half-consciously  trying  to  match  his  stride,  while  her 
thoughts  flew  far  afield. 

But  presently  father  spoke. 

"He's  very  eloquent,  isn't  he?" 

"He? — who?"  She  struggled  to  get  her  thoughts 
back  home. 

Her  father  peered  at  her  through  the  feathery 
gloom. 

"Why,  the  preacher — Reverend  MacGill." 

"Oh,  yes."  She  shook  herself  mentally.  "He's 
perfectly  fasci — "  she  broke  off,  remembering  she 
was  talking  to  a  grown-up.  "He's  very  inspired," 
she  amended. 

Another  pause.  Again  it  was  father  who  spoke 
first. 

"Who  was  the  boy  who  threw  the  paper-wad?" 

Involuntarily  Missy's  hold  on  his  arm  loosened. 
Then  father  had  seen.  That  was  bad.  Doubtless 
many  others  had  seen — old  people  who  didn't  under- 
stand the  circumstances.  It  was  very  bad  for  Ar- 
thur's reputation.  Poor  Arthur! 

"Threw  the  paper-wad  ? "  she  asked  back  evasively. 

"Yes,  the  red-headed  boy.  Wasn't  it  that  Sum- 
mers fellow?" 

That  Summers  fellow! — Arthur's  reputation  was 
already  gone! 

"Wasn't  it?"  persisted  father. 


Influencing  Arthur  191 

Evasion  was  no  longer  possible.  Anyway,  it  might 
be  best  to  try  to  explain  just  how  it  was — to  set  poor 
Arthur  right.  So  she  replied: 

"Yes,  it  was  Arthur — but  it  wasn't  his  fault,  ex- 
actly." 

"Not  his  fault?    Whose  in  thunder  was  it?" 

Missy  hesitated.  She  didn't  like  talking  scandal 
of  anyone  directly — and,  besides,  there  were  like- 
able traits  in  Genevieve  despite  her  obvious  failings. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "it's  just  that  Arthur  is  under  a 
kind  of  wrong  influence — if  you  know  what  I  mean." 

"Yes,  I  know  that  influences  count  for  a  good 
deal,"  answered  father  in  the  serious  way  she  loved 
in  him.  Father  did  understand  more  than  most 
grown-ups.  And  Reverend  MacGill  was  like  him  in 
that.  She  found  time  fleetingly  to  wish  that  Rever- 
end MacGill  were  in  some  way  related  to  her.  Too 
bad  that  he  was  a  little  too  young  for  Aunt  Nettie; 
and,  perhaps,  too  old  for— she  caught  herself  up, 
blushing  in  the  dark,  as  father  went  on: 

"Just  what  kind  of  influence  is  undermining  this 
Arthur  fellow?" 

She  wished  he  wouldn't  keep  speaking  of  Arthur 
with  that  damning  kind  of  phrase.  It  was  because 
she  wanted  to  convince  him  that  Arthur  didn't  really 
merit  it  that  she  went  further  in  speech  than  she'd 
intended. 

"Well,  he  runs  around  with  frivolous,  light-mind- 
ed people.  People  who  lead  him  on  to  do  things  he 
wouldn't  dream  of  doing  if  they'd  let  him  alone.  It 
isn't  his  fault  if  he's  kind  of — kind  of  dissipated." 


192  Missy 

She  paused,  a  little  awe-stricken  herself  at  this 
climactic  characterization  of  poor,  misguided  Ar- 
thur; she  couldn't  have  told  herself  just  how  she  had 
arrived  at  it.  A  little  confusedly  she  rushed  on: 
"He  ought  to  have  uplifting,  ennobling  influences  in 
his  life — Arthur's  at  heart  an  awfully  nice  boy. 
That's  why  I  wanted  mother  to  let  me  go  walking 
with  him.  Don't  you  think  that — maybe — if  she 
understood — she  might  let  me?" 

How  in  the  world  had  that  last  question  ever 
popped  out  ?  How  had  she  worked  up  to  it  ?  A  little 
appalled,  a  little  abashed,  but  withal  atingle  at  her 
own  daring,  she  breathlessly,  even  hopefully,  await- 
ed his  answer. 

But  father  ruthlessly  squashed  her  hopes  with  two 
fell  sentences  and  one  terrifying  oath. 

"I  should  say  not!  You  say  he's  dissipated  and 
then  in  the  same  breath  ask  me — for  God's  sake!" 

"Well,  maybe,  he  isn't  so  dissipated,  father,"  she 
began  quaveringly,  regretting  the  indiscretion  into 
which  eloquence  had  enticed  her. 

"I  don't  care  a  whoop  whether  he  is  or  not,"  said 
father  heartlessly.  "What  I  want  is  for  you  to  get 
it  into  your  head,  once  for  all,  that  you're  to  have 
•nothing  to  do  with  this  fellow  or  any  other  boy!" 

Father's  voice,  usually  so  kind,  had  the  doomsday 
quality  that  even  mother  used  only  on  very  rare  oc- 
casions. It  reverberated  in  the  depths  of  Missy's 
being.  They  walked  the  last  block  in  unbroken  si- 
lence. As  they  passed  through  the  gate,  walked  up 
the  front  path,  shook  the  snow  off  their  wraps  on 


Influencing  Arthur  193 

the  porch,  and  entered  the  cosy-lighted  precincts  of 
home,  Missy  felt  that  she  was  the  most  wretched, 
lonely,  misunderstood  being  in  the  world. 

She  said  her  good  nights  quickly  and  got  off  up- 
stairs to  her  room.  As  she  undressed  she  could  hear 
the  dim,  faraway  sound  of  her  parents'  voices.  The 
sound  irritated  her.  They  pretended  to  love  her, 
but  they  seemed  to  enjoy  making  things  hard  for 
her!  Not  only  did  they  begrudge  her  a  good  time 
and  white  fox  furs  and  everything,  but  they  wouldn't 
let  her  try  to  be  a  good  influence  to  the  world! 
What  was  the  use  of  renouncing  earthly  vanities  for 
yourself  if  you  couldn't  help  others  to  renounce  them, 
too  ?  Of  course  there  was  a  certain  pleasure,  a  kind 
of  calm,  peaceful  satisfaction,  an  ecstasy  even,  in 
letting  the  religious,  above-the-world  feeling  take 
possession  of  you.  But  it  was  selfish  to  keep  it  all 
to  yourself.  It  was  your  duty  to  pass  it  on,  to  do 
good  works — to  throw  out  the  life-line.  And  they 
begrudged  her  that — it  wasn't  right.  Were  all  par- 
ents as  hard  and  cruel  as  hers? 

She  felt  like  crying;  but,  just  then,  she  heard  them 
coming  up  the  stairs.  It  would  be  difficult  to  explain 
her  tears  should  one  of  them  look  into  her  room  on 
some  pretext;  so  she  jumped  quickly  into  bed.  And, 
sure  enough,  she  heard  the  door  open.  She  shut 
her  eyes.  She  heard  her  mother's  voice:  "Are  you 
asleep,  dear?"  Impossible  to  divine  that  under  that 
tender  voice  lay  a  stony  heart!  She  emitted  a  little 
ghost  of  a  snore;  she  heard  the  door  close  again,  very 
softly. 


194  Missy 

For  a  while  she  lay  quiet  but  she  felt  so  unlike 
sleep  that,  finally,  she  crept  out  of  bed,  groped  for 
her  blanket  wrapper,  and  went  over  to  the  window. 
It  had  stopped  snowing  and  everything  shone  palely 
in  ghostly  white.  The  trees  were  white-armed, 
gleaming  skeletons,  the  summerhouse  an  eerie  pago- 
da or  something,  the  scurrying  clouds,  breaking  now 
and  showing  silver  edges  from  an  invisible  moon, 
were  at  once  grand  and  terrifying.  It  was  all  very 
beautiful  and  mysterious  and  stirring.  And  some- 
thing in  her  stretched  out,  out,  out — to  the  driving 
clouds,  to  the  gleaming,  brandishing  boughs,  to  the 
summerhouse  so  like  something  in  a  picture.  And, 
as  her  soul  stretched  out  to  the  beauty  and  grandeur 
and  mystery  of  it  all,  there  came  over  her  a  feeling 
of  indefinable  ecstasy,  a  vague,  keen  yearning  to  be 
really  good  in  every  way.  Good  to  her  Lord,  to  her 
father  and  mother  and  Aunt  Nettie  and  little  broth- 
er, to  the  Reverend  MacGill  with  his  fascinating 
smile  and  good  works,  to  everybody — the  whole  town 
— the  whole  world.  Even  to  Genevieve  Hicks,  though 
she  seemed  so  self-satisfied  with  her  white  fox  furs 
and  giggling  ways  and  utter  worldliness — yet,  there 
were  many  things  likeable  about  Genevieve  if  you 
didn't  let  yourself  get  prejudiced.  And  Missy  didn't 
ever  want  to  let  herself  get  prejudiced — narrow  and 
harsh  and  bigoted  like  so  many  Christians.  No;  she 
wanted  to  be  a  sweet,  loving,  generous,  helpful  kind 
of  Christian.  And  to  Arthur,  too,  of  course.  There 
must  be  some  way  of  helping  Arthur. 

She  found  herself,  half-pondering,  half-praying: 


Influencing  Arthur  195 

"How  can  I  help  Arthur,  dear  Jesus?  Please  help 
me  find  some  way — so  that  he  won't  go  on  being 
light-minded  and  liking  light-mindedness.  How  can 
I  save  him  from  his  ways — maybe  he  is  dissipated. 
Maybe  he  smokes  cigarettes!  Why  does  he  fall  for 
light-mindedness?  Why  doesn't  he  feel  the  real 
beauty  of  services? — the  rumbling  throb  of  the  or- 
gan, and  the  thrill  of  hearing  your  own  voice  singing 
sublime  hymns,  and  the  inspired  swell  of  Reverend 
MacGill's  voice  when  he  prays  with  such  expression? 
It  is  real  ecstasy  when  you  get  the  right  kind  of  feel- 
ing— you're  almost  willing  to  renounce  earthly  vani- 
ties. But  Arthur  doesn't  realize  what  it  means.  How 
can  I  show  him,  dear  Jesus?  Because  they've  for- 
bidden me  to  have  anything  to  do  with  him.  Would 
it  be  right,  for  the  sake  of  his  soul,  for  me  to  disobey 
them — just  a  little  bit?  For  the  sake  of  his  soul, 
you  know.  And  he's  really  a  nice  boy  at  heart. 
They  don't  understand  just  how  it  is.  But  I  don't 
think  it  would  be  very  wrong  if  I  talked  to  him  just 
a  little — do  you?" 

Gradually  it  came  over  her  that  she  was  chilly; 
she  dragged  a  comforter  from  her  bed  and  resumed 
her  kneeling  posture  by  the  window  and  her  com- 
munings  with  Jesus  and  her  conscience.  Then  she 
discovered  she  was  going  off  to  sleep,  so  she  sprang 
to  her  feet  and  jumped  back  into  bed.  A  great 
change  had  come  over  her  spirit;  no  longer  was  there 
any  restlessness,  bitterness,  or  ugly  rebellion;  no; 
nothing  but  peace  ineffable.  Smiling  softly,  she 
slept. 


196  Missy 

The  next  morning  brought  confusion  to  the  Mer- 
riam  household  for  father  was  catching  the  8:37  to 
Macon  City  on  a  business  trip,  Aunt  Nettie  was  go- 
ing along  with  him  to  do  some  shopping,  mother  was 
in  bed  with  one  of  her  headaches,  and  Missy  had  an 
inexplicably  sore  throat.  This  last  calamity  was  at- 
tributed, in  a  hurried  conclave  in  mother's  darkened 
room,  to  Missy's  being  out  in  the  snow-storm  the 
night  before.  Missy  knew  there  was  another  con- 
tributory cause,  but  she  couldn't  easily  have  ex- 
plained her  vigil  at  the  window. 

"I  didn't  want  her  to  go  to  church  in  the  first 
place,"  mother  lamented. 

"Well,  she  won't  go  any  more,"  said  father  dark- 
ly. Missy's  heart  sank;  she  looked  at  him  with 
mutely  pleading  eyes. 

"And  you  needn't  look  at  me  like  that,"  he  added 
firmly.  "It  won't  do  you  the  least  good." 

Missy's  heart  sank  deeper.  How  could  she  hope 
to  exert  a  proper  religious  influence  if  she  didn't  at- 
tend services  regularly  herself?  But  father  looked 
terribly  adamantine. 

"I  think  you'd  better  stay  home  from  school  to- 
day," he  continued,  "it's  still  pretty  blustery." 

So  Missy  found  herself  spending  the  day  com- 
paratively alone  in  a  preternaturally  quiet  house — 
noisy  little  brother  off  at  school,  Aunt  Nettie's  busy 
tongue  absent,  Marguerite,  the  hired  girl,  doing  the 
laundry  down  in  the  basement.  And  mother's  being 
sick,  as  always  is  the  case  when  a  mother  is  sick, 
seemed  to  add  an  extra  heaviness  to  the  pervasive 


Influencing  Arthur  197 

stillness.  The  blustery  day  invited  reading,  but 
Missy  couldn't  find  anything  in  the  house  she  hadn't 
already  read;  and  she  couldn't  go  to  the  Public  Li- 
brary because  of  her  throat.  And  couldn't  prac- 
tice because  of  mother's  head.  Time  dragged  on 
her  hands,  and  Satan  found  the  mischief — though 
Missy  devoutly  believed  that  it  was  the  Lord  an- 
swering her  prayer. 

She  was  idling  at  the  front-parlour  window  when 
she  saw  Picker's  delivery  wagon  stop  at  the  gate. 
She  hurried  back  to  the  kitchen,  telling  herself  that 
Marguerite  shouldn't  be  disturbed  at  her  washtubs. 
So  she  herself  let  Arthur  in.  All  sprinkled  with 
snow  and  ruddy-cheeked  and  mischievous-eyed,  he 
grinned  at  her  as  he  emptied  his  basket  on  the 
kitchen  table. 

"Well,"  he  bantered,  "did  you  pray  for  my  sins 
last  night?'* 

"You  shouldn't  make  fun  of  things  like  that,"  she 
said  rebukingly. 

Arthur  chortled. 

"Gee,  Missy,  but  you're  sure  a  scream  when  you 
get  pious!"  Then  he  sobered  and,  casually — a  little 
too  casually,  enquired:  "Say,  I  s'pose  you're  going 
again  to-night?" 

Missy  regretfully  shook  her  head.  "No,  I've  got 
a  sore  throat."  She  didn't  deem  it  necessary  to  say 
anything  about  parental  objections.  Arthur  looked 
regretful,  too. 

"Say,  that's  too  bad.    I  was  thinking,  maybe — " 

He  shuffled  from  one  foot  to  the  other  in  a  way 


198  Missy 

that  to  Missy  clearly  finished  his  speech's  hiatus: 
He'd  been  contemplating  taking  her  home  to-night 
instead  of  that  frivolous  Genevieve  Hicks !  What  a 
shame!  To  lose  the  chance  to  be  a  really  good  in- 
fluence— for  surely  getting  Arthur  to  church  again, 
even  though  for  the  main  purpose  of  seeing  her  home, 
was  better  than  for  him  not  to  go  to  church  at  all. 
It  is  excusable  to  sort  of  inveigle  a  sinner  into  right- 
eous paths.  What  a  shame  she  couldn't  grasp  at 
this  chance  for  service!  But  she  oughtn't  to  let  go 
of  it  altogether;  oughtn't  to  just  abandon  him,  as  it 
were,  to  his  fate.  She  puckered  her  brows  medita- 
tively. 

"I'm  not  going  to  church,  but — " 

She  paused,  thinking  hard.    Arthur  waited. 

An  inspiration  came  to  her.  "Anyway,  I  have  to 
go  to  the  library  to-night.  I've  got  some  history 
references  to  look  up." 

Arthur  brightened.  The  library  appealed  to  him 
as  a  rendezvous  more  than  church,  anyway.  Oh,  ye 
Public  Libraries  of  all  the  Cherryvales  of  the  land ! 
Winter-time  haunt  of  young  love,  rivalling  band- 
concerts  in  the  Public  Square  on  summer  evenings! 
What  unscholastic  reminiscences  might  we  not  hear, 
could  book-lined  shelves  in  the  shadowy  nooks,  but 
speak! 

"About  what  time  will  you  be  through  at  the  Li- 
brary?" asked  Arthur,  still  casual. 

"Oh,  about  eight-thirty,"  said  Missy,  not  paus- 
ing to  reflect  that  it's  an  inconsistent  sore  throat 
that  can  venture  to  the  Library  but  not  to  church. 


Influencing  Arthur  199 

"Well,  maybe  I'll  be  dropping  along  that  way 
about  that  time,"  opined  Arthur.  "Maybe  I'll  see 
you  there." 

"That  would  be  nice,"  said  Missy,  tingling. 

She  continued  to  tingle  after  he  had  jauntily  de- 
parted with  his  basket  and  clattered  away  in  his  de- 
livery wagon.  She  had  a  "date"  with  Arthur.  The 
first  real  "date"  she'd  ever  had!  Then,  resolutely 
she  squashed  her  thrills;  she  must  remember  that 
this  meeting  was  for  a  Christian  cause.  The  motive 
was  what  made  it  all  right  for  her  to  disobey — that 
is,  to  seem  to  disobey — her  parents'  commands.  They 
didn't  "understand."  She  couldn't  help  feeling  a 
little  perturbed  over  her  apparent  disobedience  and 
had  to  argue  hard  with  her  conscience. 

Then,  another  difficulty  presented  itself  to  her 
mind.  Mother  had  set  her  foot  down  on  evening 
visits  to  the  Library — mother  seemed  to  think  girls 
went  there  evenings  chiefly  to  meet  boys!  Mother 
would  never  let  her  go — especially  in  such  weather 
and  with  a  sore  throat.  Missy  pondered  long  and 
earnestly. 

The  result  was  that,  after  supper,  at  which  mother 
had  appeared,  pale  and  heavy-eyed,  Missy  said  ten- 
tatively: 

"Can  I  run  up  to  Kitty's  a  little  while  to  see  what 
the  lessons  are  for  to-morrow?" 

"I  don't  think  you'd  better,  dear,"  mother  re- 
plied listlessly.  "It  wouldn't  be  wise,  with  that 
throat." 

"But  my  throat's  better.    And  I've  got  to  keep 


200  Missy 

up  my  lessons,  mother!  And  just  a  half  a  block 
can't  hurt  me  if  I  bundle  up."  Missy  had  formu- 
lated her  plan  well;  Kitty  Allen  had  been  chosen  as 
an  alibi  because  of  her  proximity. 

"Very  well,  then,"  agreed  mother. 

As  Missy  sped  toward  the  library,  conflicting 
emotions  swirled  within  her  and  joined  forces  with 
the  sharp  breathlessness  brought  on  by  her  haste. 
She  had  never  before  been  out  alone  at  night,  and 
the  blackness  of  tree-shadows  lying  across  the  in- 
tense whiteness  of  the  snow  struck  her  in  two  places 
at  once — imaginatively  in  the  brain  and  fearsomely 
in  the  stomach.  Nor  is  a  guilty  conscience  a  reas- 
suring companion  under  such  circumstances.  Missy 
kept  telling  herself  that,  if  she  had  lied  a  little  bit,  it 
was  really  her  parents'  fault;  if  they  had  only  let 
her  go  to  church,  she  wouldn't  have  been  driven  to 
sneaking  out  this  way.  But  her  trip,  however  fun- 
damentally virtuous — and  with  whatever  subtly  in- 
terwoven elements  of  pleasure  at  its  end — was  cer- 
tainly not  an  agreeable  one.  At  the  moment  Missy 
resolved  never,  never  to  sneak  off  alone  at  night 
again. 

In  the  brightly  lighted  library  her  fears  faded 
away;  she  warmed  to  anticipation  again.  And  she 
found  some  very  enjoyable  stories  in  the  new  maga- 
zines— she  seemed,  strangely,  to  have  forgotten 
about  any  "history  references."  But,  as  the  hands 
on  the  big  clock  above  the  librarian's  desk  moved 
toward  half-past  eight,  apprehensions  began  to  rise 
again.  What  if  Arthur  should  fail  to  come?  Could 


Influencing  Arthur  201 

she  ever  live  through  that  long,  terrible  trip  home, 
all  alone? 

Then,  just  as  fear  was  beginning  to  turn  to  panic, 
Arthur  sauntered  in,  nonchalantly  took  a  chair  at 
another  table,  picked  up  a  magazine  and  professed 
to  glance  through  it.  And  then,  while  Missy  palpi- 
tated, he  looked  over  at  her,  smiled,  and  made  an 
interrogative  movement  with  his  eyebrows.  More 
palpitant  by  the  second,  she  replaced  her  magazines 
and  got  into  her  wraps.  As  she  moved  toward  the 
door,  whither  Arthur  was  also  sauntering,  she  felt 
that  every  eye  in  the  Library  must  be  observing. 
Hard  to  tell  whether  she  was  more  proud  or 
embarrassed  at  the  public  empressement  of  her 
"date." 

Arthur,  quite  at  ease,  took  her  arm  to  help  her 
down  the  slippery  steps. 

Arthur  wore  his  air  of  assurance  gracefully  be- 
cause he  was  so  used  to  it.  Admiration  from  the 
fair  sex  was  no  new  thing  to  him.  And  Missy  knew 
this.  Perhaps  that  was  one  reason  she'd  been  so 
modestly  pleased  that  he  had  wished  to  bestow  his 
gallantries  upon  her.  She  realized  that  Raymond 
Bonner  was  much  handsomer  and  richer;  and  that 
Kitty  Allen's  cousin  Jim  from  Macon  City,  in  his 
uniform  of  a  military  cadet,  was  much  more  distin- 
guished-looking; and  that  Don  Jones  was  much  more 
humbly  adoring.  Arthur  had  red  hair,  and  lived  in 
a  boarding-house  and  drove  a  delivery-wagon,  and 
wasn't  the  least  bit  humble;  but  he  had  an  auda- 
cious grin  and  upcurling  lashes  and  "a  way  with 


2O2  Missy 

him."  So  Missy  accepted  his  favour  with  a  certain 
proud  gratitude. 

She  felt  herself  the  heroine  of  a  thrilling  situation 
though  their  conversation,  as  Arthur  guided  her 
along  the  icy  sidewalks,  was  of  very  ordinary  things : 
the  weather — Missy's  sore  throat  (sweet  solicitude 
from  Arthur) — and  gossip  of  the  "crowd" — the 
weather's  probabilities  to-morrow — more  gossip — 
the  weather  again. 

The  weather  was,  in  fact,  in  assertive  evidence. 
The  wind  whipped  chillingly  about  Missy's  short- 
skirted  legs,  for  they  were  strolling  slowly — the  cor- 
rect way  to  walk  when  one  has  a  "date."  Missy's 
teeth  were  chattering  and  her  legs  seemed  wooden, 
but  she'd  have  died  rather  than  suggest  running  a 
block  to  warm  up.  Anyway,  despite  physical  dis- 
comforts, there  was  a  certain  deliciousness  in  the 
situation,  even  though  she  found  it  difficult  to  turn 
the  talk  into  the  spiritual  trend  she  had  proposed. 
Finally  Arthur  himself  mentioned  the  paper-wad  epi- 
sode, laughing  at  it  as  though  it  were  a  sort  of  joke. 

That  was  her  opening. 

"You  shouldn't  be  so  worldly,  Arthur,"  she  said 
in  a  voice  of  gentle  reproof. 

"Worldly?"  in  some  surprise. 

She  nodded  seriously  over  her  serviceable,  un- 
worldly brown  collarette. 

"How  am  I  worldly?"  he  pursued,  in  a  tone  of 
one  not  entirely  unpleased. 

"Why — throwing  wads  in  church — lack  of  respect 
for  religious  things — and  things  like  that." 


Influencing  Arthur  203 

"Oh,  I  see,"  said  Arthur,  his  tone  dropping  a  lit- 
tle. "I  suppose  it  was  a  silly  thing  to  do,"  he  added 
with  a  touch  of  stiffness. 

"It  was  a  profane  kind  of  thing,"  she  said,  sadly. 
"Don't  you  see,  Arthur?" 

"If  I'm  such  a  sinner,  I  don't  see  why  you  have 
anything  to  do  with  me." 

It  stirred  her  profoundly  that  he  didn't  laugh, 
scoff  at  her;  she  had  feared  he  might.  She  answered, 
very  gravely: 

"It's  because  I  like  you.  You  don't  think  it's  a 
pleasure  to  me  to  find  fault  with  you,  do  you  Ar- 
thur?" 

"Then  why  find  fault?"  he  asked  good-naturedly. 

"But  if  the  faults  are  there?"  she  persevered. 

"Let's  forget  about  'em,  then,"  he  answered  with 
cheerful  logic.  "Everybody  can't  be  good  like  you, 
you  know." 

Missy  felt  nonplussed,  though  subtly  pleased,  in  a 
way.  Arthur  did  admire  her,  thought  her  "good" 
— perhaps,  in  time  she  could  be  a  good  influence  to 
him.  But  at  a  loss  just  how  to  answer  his  personal 
allusion,  she  glanced  backward  over  her  shoulder. 
In  the  moonlight  she  saw  a  tall  man  back  there  in 
the  distance. 

There  was  a  little  pause. 

"I  don't  s'pose  you'll  be  going  to  the  Library 
again  to-morrow  night?"  suggested  Arthur  present- 

ly. 

"Why,  I  don't  know — why?"  But  she  knew 
"why,"  and  her  knowledge  gave  her  a  tingle. 


204  Missy 

"Oh,  I  was  just  thinking  that  if  you  had  to  look 
up  some  references  or  something,  maybe  I  might 
drop  around  again." 

"Maybe  I  will  have  to — I  don't  know  just  yet," 
she  murmured,  confused  with  a  sweet  kind  of  confu- 
sion. 

"Well,  I'll  just  drop  by,  anyway,"  he  said.  "May- 
be you'll  be  there." 

"Yes,  maybe." 

Another  pause.  Trying  to  think  of  something  to 
say,  she  glanced  again  over  her  shoulder.  Then  she 
clutched  at  Arthur's  arm. 

"Look  at  that  man  back  there — following  us!  He 
looks  something  like  father!" 

As  she  spoke  she  unconsciously  quickened  her 
pace;  Arthur  consciously  quickened  his.  He  knew 
— as  all  of  the  boys  of  "the  crowd"  knew — Mr.  Mer- 
riam's  stand  on  the  matter  of  beaux. 

"Oh!"  cried  Missy  under  her  breath.  She  fancied 
that  the  tall  figure  had  now  accelerated  his  gait, 
also.  "It  is  father!  I'll  cut  across  this  vacant  lot 
and  get  in  at  the  kitchen  door — I  can  beat  him  home 
that  way!" 

Arthur  started  to  turn  into  the  vacant  lot  with 
her,  but  she  gave  him  a  little  push. 

"No!  no!  It's  just  a  little  way — I  won't  be  afraid. 
You'd  better  run,  Arthur — he  might  kill  you!" 

Arthur  didn't  want  to  be  killed.  "So  long,  then 
• — let  me  know  how  things  come  out!" — and  he  dis- 
appeared fleetly  down  the  block. 

Missy  couldn't  make  such  quick  progress;  the  va- 


Influencing  Arthur  205 

cant  lot  had  been  a  cornfield,  and  the  stubby  ground 
was  frozen  into  hard,  sharp  ridges  under  the  snow. 
She  stumbled,  felt  her  shoes  filling  with  snow,  stum- 
bled on,  fell  down,  felt  her  stocking  tear  viciously. 
She  glanced  over  her  shoulder — had  the  tall  figure 
back  there  on  the  sidewalk  slowed  down,  too,  or  was 
it  only  imagination?  She  scrambled  to  her  feet  and 
hurried  on — and  he  seemed  to  be  hurrying  again. 
She  had  no  time,  now,  to  be  afraid  of  the  vague  ter- 
rors of  night;  her  panic  was  perfectly  and  terribly 
tangible.  She  must  get  home  ahead  of  father. 

Blindly  she  stumbled  on. 

At  the  kitchen  door  she  paused  a  moment  to  re- 
gain her  breath;  then,  very  quietly,  she  entered. 
There  was  a  light  in  the  kitchen  and  she  could  hear 
mother  doing  something  in  the  pantry.  She  sniffed 
at  the  air  and  called  cheerily: 

"Been  popping  corn?" 

"Yes,"  came  mother's  voice,  rather  stiffly.  "Seems 
to  me  you've  been  a  long  time  finding  out  about 
those  lessons!" 

Not  offering  to  debate  that  question,  nor  waiting 
to  appease  her  sudden  craving  for  pop-corn,  Missy 
moved  toward  the  door. 

"Get  your  wet  shoes  off  at  once!"  called  mother. 

"That's  just  what  I  was  going  to  do."  And  she 
nurried  up  the  back  stairs,  unbuttoning  buttons  as 
she  went. 

Presently,  in  her  night-dress  and  able  to  breathe 
naturally  again,  she  felt  safer.  But  she  decided 
she'd  better  crawl  into  bed.  She  lay  there,  listening. 


206  Missy 

It  must  have  been  a  half-hour  later  when  she  heard 
a  cab  stop  in  front  of  the  house,  and  then  the  slam 
of  the  front  door  and  the  sound  of  father's  voice. 
He  had  just  come  in  on  the  9:23 — that  hadn't  been 
him,  after  all! 

As  relief  stole  over  her,  drowsiness  tugged  at  her 
eyelids.  But,  just  as  she  was  dozing  off,  she  was 
roused  by  someone's  entering  the  room,  bending 
over  her. 

"Asleep?" 

It  was  father!  Her  first  sensation  was  of  fear, 
until  she  realized  his  tone  was  not  one  to  be  feared. 
And,  responding  to  that  tenderness  of  tone,  sharp 
compunctions  pricked  her.  Dear  father! — it  was 
horrible  to  have  to  deceive  him. 

"I've  brought  you  a  little  present  from  town." 
He  was  lighting  the  gas.  "Here!" 

Her  blinking  eyes  saw  him  place  a  big  flat  box  on 
the  bed.  She  fumbled  at  the  cords,  accepted  his 
proffered  pen-knife,  and  then — oh,  dear  heaven! 
There,  fluffy,  snow-white  and  alluring,  reposed  a  set 
of  white  fox  furs ! 

'  "S-sh!"  he  admonished,  smiling.  "Mother  doesn't 
know  about  them  yet." 

"Oh,  father!"  She  couldn't  say  any  more.  And 
the  father,  smiling  at  her,  thought  he  understood  the 
emotions  which  tied  her  tongue,  which  underlay  her 
fervent  good  night  kiss.  But  he  could  never  have 
guessed  all  the  love,  gratitude,  repentance,  self-abase- 
ment and  high  resolves  at  that  moment  welling  with- 
in her. 


Influencing  Arthur  207 

He  left  her  sitting  up  there  in  bed,  her  fingers  still 
caressing  the  silky  treasure.  As  soon  as  he  was  gone, 
she  climbed  out  of  bed  to  kneel  in  repentant  humility. 

"Dear  Jesus,"  she  prayed,  "please  forgive  me  for 
deceiving  my  dear  father  and  mother.  If  you'll  for- 
give me  just  this  once,  I  promise  never,  never  to  de- 
ceive them  again." 

Then,  feeling  better — prayer,  when  there  is  real 
faith,  does  lift  a  load  amazingly — she  climbed  back 
into  bed,  with  the  furs  on  her  pillow. 

But  she  could  not  sleep.  That  was  natural — so 
much  had  happened,  and  everything  seemed  so  com- 
plicated. Everything  had  been  seeming  to  go  against 
her  and  here,  all  of  a  sudden,  everything  had  turned 
out  her  way.  She  had  her  white  fox  furs,  much  pret- 
tier than  Genevieve  Hicks's — oh,  she  did  hope  they'd 
let  her  go  to  church  next  Sunday  night  so  she  could 
wear  them!  And  she'd  had  a  serious  little  talk  with 
Arthur — the  way  seemed  paved  for  her  to  exert  a 
really  satisfactory  influence  over  him.  As  soon  as 
she  could  see  him  again —  Oh,  she  wished  she  might 
wear  the  furs  to  the  Library  to-morrow  night!  She 
wished  Arthur  could  see  her  in  them — 

A  sudden  thought  brought  her  up  sharp:  she 
couldn't  meet  him  to-morrow  night  after  all — for  she 
never  wanted  to  deceive  dear  father  again.  No,  she 
would  never  sneak  off  like  that  any  more.  Yet  it 
wouldn't  be  fair  to  Arthur  to  let  him  go  there  and 
wait  in  vain.  She  ought  to  let  him  know,  some  way. 
And  she  ought  to  let  him  know,  too,  that  that  man 
wasn't  father,  after  all.  What  if  he  was  worrying, 


2o8  Missy 

this  minute,  thinking  she  might  have  been  caught 
and  punished.  It  didn't  seem  right,  while  she  was 
so  happy,  to  leave  poor  Arthur  worrying  like  that. 
.  .  .  Oh,  she  did  wish  he  could  see  her  in  the 
furs.  .  .  .  Yes,  she  ought  to  tell  him  she  couldn't 
keep  the  "date" — it  would  be  awful  for  him  to  sit 
there  in  the  Library,  waiting  and  waiting.  ... 

She  kept  up  her  disturbed  ponderings  until  the 
house  grew  dark  and  still.  Then,  very  quietly,  she 
crept  out  of  bed  and  dressed  herself  in  the  dark. 
She  put  on  her  cloak  and  hat.  After  a  second's 
hesitation  she  added  the  white  fox  furs.  Then,  hold- 
ing her  breath,  she  stole  down  the  back  stairs  and 
out  the  kitchen  door. 

The  night  seemed  more  fearsomely  spectral  than 
ever — it  must  be  terribly  late;  but  she  sped  through 
the  white  silence  resolutely.  She  was  glad  Arthur's 
boarding-house  was  only  two  blocks  away.  She 
knew  which  was  his  window;  she  stood  beneath  it 
and  softly  gave  "the  crowd's"  whistle.  Waited — 
whistled  again.  There  was  his  window  going  up  at 
last.  And  Arthur's  tousled  head  peering  out. 

"I  just  wanted  to  let  you  know  I  can't  come  to 
the  Library  after  all,  Arthur!  No! — Don't  say  any- 
thing, now! — I'll  explain  all  about  it  when  I  get  a 
chance.  And  that  wasn't  father — it  turned  out  all 
right.  No,  no! — Don't  say  anything  now!  Maybe 
I'll  be  in  the  kitchen  to-morrow.  Good  night!" 

Then,  while  Arthur  stared  after  her  amazed ly,  she 
turned  and  scurried  like  a  scared  rabbit  through  the 
white  silence. 


Influencing  Arthur  209 

As  she  ran  she  was  wondering  whether  Arthur 
had  got  a  really  good  view  of  the  furs  in  the  moon- 
light; was  resolving  to  urge  him  to  go  to  church 
next  Sunday  night  even  if  she  couldn't;  was  telling 
herself  she  mustn't  entirely  relinquish  her  hold  on 
him — for  his  sake.  .  .  . 

So  full  were  her  thoughts  that  she  forgot  to  be 
much  afraid.  And  the  Lord  must  have  been  with 
her,  for  she  reached  the  kitchen  door  in  safety  and 
regained  her  own  room  without  detection.  In  bed 
once  again,  a  great,  soft,  holy  peace  seemed  to  en- 
fold her.  Everything  was  right  with  everybody — • 
with  father  and  mother  and  God  and  Arthur — every- 
body. 

At  the  very  time  she  was  going  off  into  smiling 
slumber — one  hand  nestling  in  the  white  fox  furs  on 
her  pillow — it  happened  that  her  father  was  making 
half-apologetic  explanations  to  her  mother:  every- 
thing had  seemed  to  come  down  on  the  child  in  a 
lump — commands  against  walking  and  against  boys 
and  against  going  out  nights  and  everything.  He 
couldn't  help  feeling  for  the  youngster.  So  he 
thought  he'd  bring  her  the  white  fox  furs  she  seemed 
to  have  set  her  heart  on. 

And  Mrs.  Merriam,  who  could  understand  a  fa- 
ther's indulgent,  sympathetic  heart  even  though — 
as  Missy  believed — she  wasn't  capable  of  "under- 
standing" a  daughter's,  didn't  have  it  in  her,  then, 
to  spoil  his  pleasure  by  expounding  that  wanting 
furs  and  wanting  beaux  were  really  one  and  the 
same  evil. 


VII 

Business  of  Blushing 

TV/TISSY  was  embroiled  in  a  catastrophe,  a  tan- 
gle  of  embarrassments  and  odd  complications. 
Aunt  Nettie  attributed  the  blame  broadly  to  "that 
O'Neill  girl";  she  asserted  that  ever  since  Tess 
O'Neill  had  come  to  live  in  Chenyvale  Missy  had 
been  "up  to*'  just  one  craziness  after  another.  But 
then  Aunt  Nettie  was  an  old  maid — Missy  couldn't 
imagine  her  as  ever  having  been  fifteen  years  old. 
Mother,  who  could  generally  be  counted  on  for  ten- 
derness even  when  she  failed  to  "understand,"  rather 
unfortunately  centred  on  the  wasp  detail — why  had 
Missy  just  stood  there  and  let  it  keep  stinging  her? 
And  Missy  felt  shy  at  trying  to  explain  it  was  be- 
cause the  wasp  was  stinging  her  leg.  Mother  would 
be  sure  to  remark  this  sudden  show  of  modesty  in 
one  she'd  just  been  scolding  for  the  lack  of  it — for 
riding  the  pony  astride  and  showing  her — • 

Oh,  legs!  Missy  was  in  a  terrific  confusion,  as 
baffled  by  certain  inconsistencies  displayed  by  her 
own  nature  as  overwhelmed  by  her  disgraceful  pre- 
dicament. For  she  was  certainly  sincere  in  her  crav- 
ing to  be  as  debonairly  "athletic"  as  Tess;  yet,  dur- 
ing that  ghastly  moment  when  the  wasp  was  .  .  . 

210 


Business  of  Blushing  211 

No,  she  could  never  explain  it  to  mother.  Old 
people  don't  understand.  Not  even  to  father  could 
she  have  talked  it  all  out,  though  he  had  patted  her 
hand  and  acted  like  an  angel  when  he  paid  for  the 
bucket  of  candy — that  candy  which  none  of  them  got 
even  a  taste  of!  That  Tess  and  Arthur  should  eat 
up  the  candy  which  her  own  father  paid  for,  made 
one  more  snarl  in  the  whole  inconsistent  situation. 

It  all  began  with  the  day  Arthur  Simpson  "dared  " 
Tess  to  ride  her  pony  into  Picker's  grocery  store. 
Before  Tess  had  come  to  live  in  the  sanitarium  at  the 
edge  of  town  where  her  father  was  head  doctor,  she 
had  lived  in  Macon  City  and  had  had  superior  ad- 
vantages— city  life,  to  Missy,  a  Cherryvalian  from 
birth,  sounded  exotic  and  intriguing.  Then  Tess  in 
her  nature  was  far  from  ordinary.  She  was  charac- 
terized by  a  certain  dash  and  fine  flair;  was  invent- 
ive, fearless,  and  possessed  the  gift  of  leadership. 
Missy,  seeing  how  eagerly  the  other  girls  of  "the 
crowd"  caught  up  Tess's  original  ideas,  felt  enor- 
mously flattered  when  the  leader  selected  such  a  com- 
paratively stupid  girl  as  herself  as  a  chum. 

For  Missy  thought  she  must  be  stupid.  She  wasn't 
"smart"  in  school  like  Beulah  Crosswhite,  nor  strik- 
ingly pretty  like  Kitty  Allen,  nor  president  of  the 
lolanthians  like  Mabel  Dowd,  nor  conspicuously  pop- 
ular with  the  boys  like  Genevieve  Hicks.  No,  she 
possessed  no  distinctive  traits  anybody  could  pick 
out  to  label  her  by — at  least  that  is  what  she  thought. 
So  she  felt  on  her  mettle;  she  wished  to  prove  herself 
worthy  of  Tess's  high  regard. 


212  Missy 

It  was  rather  strenuous  living  up  to  Tess.  Some- 
times Missy  couldn't  help  wishing  that  her  chum 
were  not  quite  so  alert.  Being  all  the  while  on  the 
jump,  mentally  and  physically,  left  you  somewhat 
breathless  and  dizzy;  then,  too,  it  didn't  leave  you 
time  to  sample  certain  quieter  yet  thrilling  enjoy- 
ments that  came  right  to  hand.  For  example,  now 
and  then,  Missy  secretly  longed  to  spend  a  leisurely 
hour  or  so  just  talking  with  Tess's  grandmother. 
Tess's  grandmother,  though  an  old  lady,  seemed  to 
her  a  highly  romantic  figure.  Her  name  was  Mrs. 
Shears  and  she  had  lived  her  girlhood  in  a  New  Eng- 
land seaport  town,  and  her  father  had  been  captain 
of  a  vessel  which  sailed  to  and  from  far  Eastern 
shores.  He  had  brought  back  from  those  long-ago 
voyages  bales  and  bales  of  splendid  Oriental  fabrics 
— stiff  rustling  silks  and  slinky  clinging  crepes  and 
indescribably  brilliant  brocades  shot  with  silver  or 
with  gold.  For  nearly  fifty  years  Mrs.  Shears  had 
worn  dresses  made  from  these  romantic  stuffs  and 
she  was  wearing  them  yet — in  Cherryvale!  They 
were  all  made  after  the  same  pattern,  gathered  volu- 
minous skirt  and  fitted  bodice  and  long  flowing 
sleeves;  and,  with  the  small  lace  cap  she  always  wore 
on  her  white  hair,  Missy  thought  the  old  lady  looked 
as  if  she'd  just  stepped  from  the  yellow-tinged  pages 
of  some  fascinating  old  book.  She  wished  her  own 
grandmother  dressed  like  that;  of  course  she  loved 
Grandma  Merriam  dearly  and  really  wouldn't  have 
exchanged  her  for  the  world,  yet,  in  contrast,  she  did 
seem  somewhat  commonplace. 


Business  of  Blushing  213 

It  was  interesting  to  sit  and  look  at  Grandma 
Shears  and  to  hear  her  recount  the  Oriental  adven- 
tures of  her  father,  the  sea  captain.  But  Tess  gave 
Missy  little  chance  to  do  this.  Tess  had  heard  and 
re-heard  the  adventures  to  the  point  of  boredom  and 
custom  had  caused  her  to  take  her  grandmother's 
strange  garb  as  a  matter  of  course;  Tess's  was  a 
nature  which  craved — and  generally  achieved — 
novelty. 

Just  now  her  particular  interest  veered  toward 
athleticism;  she  had  recently  returned  from  a  visit 
to  Macon  City  and  brimmed  with  colourful  tales  of 
its  "Country  Club"  life — swimming,  golf,  tennis, 
horseback  riding,  and  so  forth.  These  pursuits  she 
straightway  set  out  to  introduce  into  drowsy,  behind- 
the-times  Cherryvale.  But  in  almost  every  direction 
she  encountered  difficulties :  there  was  in  Cherryvale 
no  place  to  swim  except  muddy  Bull  Creek — and 
the  girls'  mothers  unanimously  vetoed  that;  and 
there  were  no  links  for  golf;  and  the  girls  themselves 
didn't  enthuse  greatly  over  tennis  those  broiling 
afternoons.  So  Tess  centred  on  horseback  riding, 
deciding  it  was  the  "classiest"  sport,  after  all.  But 
the  old  Neds  and  Nellies  of  the  town,  accustomed 
leisurely  to  transport  their  various  family  surreys, 
did  not  metamorphose  into  hackneys  of  such  spirit 
and  dash  as  filled  Tess's  dreams. 

Even  so,  these  steeds  were  formidable  enough  to 
Missy.  She  feared  she  wasn't  very  athletic.  That 
was  an  afternoon  of  frightful  chagrin  when  she  came 
walking  back  into  Cherryvale,  ignominiously  follow- 


214  Missy 

ing  Dr.  O'Neiirs  Ben.  Old  Ben,  who  was  lame  in 
his  left  hind  foot,  had  a  curious  gait,  like  a  sort  of 
grotesque  turkey  trot.  Missy  outwardly  attributed 
her  inability  to  keep  her  seat  to  Ben's  peculiar  rock- 
ing motion,  but  in  her  heart  she  knew  it  was  simply 
because  she  was  afraid.  What  she  was  afraid  of  she 
couldn't  have  specified.  Not  of  old  Ben  surely,  for 
she  knew  him  to  be  the  gentlest  of  horses.  When 
she  stood  on  the  ground  beside  him,  stroking  his 
shaggy,  uncurried  flanks  or  feeding  him  bits  of  sugar, 
she  felt  not  the  slightest  fear.  Yet  the  minute  she 
climbed  up  into  the  saddle  she  sickened  under  the 
grip  of  some  increasingly  heart-stilling  panic.  Even 
before  Ben  started  forward;  so  it  wasn't  Ben's 
rocking,  lop-sided  gait  that  was  really  at  the  bottom 
of  her  fear — it  only  accentuated  it.  Why  was  she 
afraid  of  Ben  up  there  in  the  saddle  while  not  in  the 
least  afraid  when  standing  beside  him?  Fear  was 
very  strange.  Did  everybody  harbour  some  secret, 
absurd,  unreasonable  fear?  No,  Tess  didn't;  Tess 
wasn't  afraid  of  anything.  Tess  was  cantering  along 
on  rawboned  Nellie  in  beautiful  unconcern.  Missy 
admired  and  envied  her  dreadfully. 

Her  sense  of  her  own  shortcomings  became  all  the 
more  poignant  when  the  little  cavalcade,  with  Missy 
still  ignominiously  footing  it  in  the  rear,  had  to  pass 
the  group  of  loafers  in  front  of  the  Post  Office.  The 
loafers  called  out  rude,  bantering  comments,  and 
Missy  burned  with  shame. 

Then  Arthur  Simpson  appeared  in  Picker's  door- 
way next  door  and  grinned. 


Business  of  Blushing  215 

"Hello!  Some  steed!"  he  greeted  Tess.  "Dare 
you  to  ride  her  in!" 

"Not  to-day,  thanks,"  retorted  Tess  insouciantly 
— that  was  another  quality  Missy  envied  in  her 
friend,  her  unfailing  insouciance.  "Wait  till  I  get 
my  new  pony  next  week,  and  then  I'll  take  you 
up!" 

"All  right.  The  dare  holds  good."  Then  Arthur 
turned  his  grin  to  Missy.  "What's  the  matter  with 
you?  Charger  get  out  of  hand?" 

The  loafers  in  front  of  the  Post  Office  took  time 
from  their  chewing  and  spitting  to  guffaw.  Missy 
could  have  died  of  mortification. 

"Want  a  lift?"  asked  Arthur,  moving  forward. 

Missy  shook  her  head.  She  longed  to  retrieve 
herself  in  the  public  gaze,  longed  to  shine  as  Tess 
shone,  but  not  for  worlds  could  she  have  essayed  that 
high,  dizzy  seat  again.  So  she  shook  her  head 
dumbly  and  Arthur  grinned  at  her  not  unkindly. 
Missy  liked  Arthur  Simpson.  He  wore  a  big  blue- 
denim  apron  and  had  red  hair  and  freckles — not  a 
romantic  figure  by  any  means;  but  there  was  a 
mischievous  imp  in  his  eye  and  a  rollicking  lilt  in  his 
voice  that  made  you  like  him,  anyway.  Missy  wished 
he  hadn't  been  a  witness  to  her  predicament.  Not 
that  she  felt  at  all  sentimental  toward  Arthur. 
Arthur  "went  with"  Genevieve  Hicks,  a  girl  whom 
Missy  privately  deemed  frivolous  and  light-minded. 
Besides  Missy  herself  was,  at  this  time,  interested  in 
Raymond  Bonner,  the  handsomest  boy  in  "the 
crowd."  Missy  liked  good  looks — they  appealed 


2i  6  Missy 

to  the  imagination  or  something.  And  she  adored 
everything  that  appealed  to  the  imagination:  there 
was,  for  instance,  the  picture  of  Sir  Galahad,  in 
shining  armour,  which  hung  on  the  wall  of  her  room — • 
for  a  time  she  had  almost  said  her  prayers  to  that 
picture;  and  there  was  a  compelling  mental  image 
of  the  gallant  Sir  Launcelot  in  "Idylls  of  the  King" 
and  of  the  stern,  repressed,  silently  suffering  Guy  in 
"Airy  Fairy  Lilian."  Also  there  had  recently  come 
into  her  possession  a  magazine  clipping  of  the  boy 
king  of  Spain;  she  couldn't  claim  that  Alphonso  was 
handsome — in  truth  he  was  quite  ugly — yet  there 
was  something  intriguing  about  him.  She  secretly 
treasured  the  printed  likeness  and  thought  about 
the  original  a  great  deal:  the  alluring  life  he  led, 
the  panoply  of  courts,  royal  balls  and  garden-parties 
and  resplendent  military  parades,  and  associating 
with  princes  and  princesses  all  the  time.  She 
wondered,  with  a  little  sigh,  whether  his  "crowd" 
called  him  by  his  first  name;  though  a  King  he  was 
just  a  boy — about  her  own  age. 

Nevertheless,  though  Arthur  Simpson  was  neither 
handsome  nor  revealed  aught  which  might  stir 
vague,  deep  currents  of  romance,  Missy  regretted 
that  even  Arthur  had  seen  her  in  such  a  sorry  plight. 
She  wished  he  might  see  her  at  a  better  advantage. 
For  instance,  galloping  up  on  a  spirited  mount,  in 
a  modish  riding-habit — a  checked  one  with  flaring- 
skirted  coat  and  shining  boots  and  daring  but  swag- 
ger breeches,  perhaps! — galloping  insouciantly  up 
to  take  that  dare! 


Business  of  Blushing  217 

But  she  knew  it  was  an  empty  dream.  Even  if 
she  had  the  swagger  togs — a  notion  mad  to  absurdity 
— she  could  never  gallop  with  insouciance.  She 
wasn't  the  athletic  sort. 

At  supper  she  was  still  somewhat  bitterly  rumi- 
nating her  failings. 

"Missy,  you're  not  eating  your  omelet,"  adjured 
her  mother. 

Missy's  eyes  came  back  from  space. 

"I  was  just  wondering — "  then  she  broke  off. 

"Yes,  dear,"  encouraged  mother.  Missy's  hazy 
thoughts  took  a  sudden  plunge,  direct  and  startling. 

"I  was  wondering  if,  maybe,  you'd  give  me  an  old 
pair  of  father's  trousers." 

"What  on  earth  for,  child?" 

"Just  an  old  pair,"  Missy  went  on,  ignoring  the 
question.  "Maybe  that  pepper-and-salt  pair  you 
said  you'd  have  to  give  to  Jeff." 

"But  what  do  you  want  of  them?"  persisted 
mother.  "Jeff  needs  them  disgracefully — the  last 
time  he  mowed  the  yard  I  blushed  every  time  he 
turned  his  back  toward  the  street." 

"I  think  Mrs.  Allen's  going  to  give  him  a  pair  of 
Mr.  Allen's — Kitty  said  she  was.  So  he  won't  need 
the  pepper-and-salts." 

"But  what  do  you  want  with  a  pair  of  pants?" 
Aunt  Nettie  put  in.  Missy  wished  Aunt  Nettie  had 
been  invited  out  to  supper;  Aunt  Nettie  was  relent- 
lessly inquisitive.  She  knew  she  must  give  some 
kind  of  answer. 

"Oh,  just  for  some  fancy-work/'  she  said.     She 


218  Missy 

tried  to  make  her  tone  insouciant,  but  she  was 
conscious  of  her  cheeks  getting  hot. 

"Fancy-work — pants  for  fancy-work!  For  heav- 
en's sake!"  ejaculated  Aunt  Nettie. 

Mother,  also,  was  staring  at  her  in  surprise.  But 
father,  who  was  a  darling,,  put  in:  "Give  'em  to  her 
if  she  wants  'em,  dear.  Maybe  she'll  make  a  lambre- 
quin for  the  piano  or  an  embroidered  smoking-jacket 
for  the  old  man — a  la  your  Ladies'  Home  Companion" 

He  grinned  at  her,  but  Missy  didn't  mind  father's 
jokes  at  her  expense  so  much  as  most  grown-ups'. 
Besides  she  was  grateful  to  him  for  diverting  atten- 
tion from  her  secret  purpose  for  the  pants. 

After  supper,  out  in  the  summerhouse,  it  was  an 
evening  of  such  swooning  beauty  she  almost  forgot 
the  bothers  vexing  her  life.  When  you  sit  and  watch 
the  sun  set  in  a  bed  of  pastel  glory,  and  let  the  level 
bars  of  thick  gold  light  steal  across  the  soft  slick 
grass  to  reach  to  your  very  soul,  and  smell  the 
heavenly  sweetness  of  dew-damp  roses,  and  listen 
to  the  shrill  yet  mournful  even-song  of  the  locusts — 
when  you  sit  very  still,  just  letting  it  all  seep  into 
you  and  through  and  through  you,  such  a  beatific 
sense  of  peace  surges  over  you  that,  gradually,  trivial 
things  like  athletic  shortcomings  seem  superficial 
and  remote. 

Later,  too,  up  in  her  room,  slowly  undressing  in 
the  moonlight,  she  let  herself  yield  to  the  sweeter 
spell.  She  loved  her  room,  especially  when  but 
dimly  lit  by  soft  white  strips  of  the  moon  through  the 
window.  She  loved  the  dotted  Swiss  curtains  blow- 


Business  of  Blushing  219 

ing,  and  the  white-valanced  little  bed,  and  the  white- 
valanced  little  dressing-table  all  dim  and  misty  save 
where  a  broad  shaft  of  light  gave  a  divine  patch  of 
illumination  to  undress  by.  She  said  her  prayers  on 
her  knees  by  the  window,  where  she  could  keep  open 
but  unsacrilegious  eyes  on  God's  handiwork  outside 
—the  divine  miracle  of  everyday  things  transformed 
into  shimmering  glory. 

A  soft  brushing  against  her  ankles  told  her  that 
Poppylinda,  her  cat,  had  come  to  say  good  night. 
She  lifted  her  pet  up  to  the  sill. 

"See  the  beautiful  night,  Poppy,"  she  said.  "See! 
— it's  just  like  a  great,  soft,  lovely,  blue-silver  bed!" 

Poppy  gave  a  gentle  purr  of  acquiescence.  Missy 
was  sure  it  was  acquiescence.  She  was  convinced 
that  Poppy  had  a  fine,  appreciative,  discriminating 
mind.  Aunt  Nettie  scouted  at  this;  she  denied  that 
she  disliked  Poppy,  but  said  she  "liked  cats  in  their 
place."  Missy  knew  this  meant,  of  course,  that 
inwardly  she  loathed  cats;  that  she  regarded  them 
merely  as  something  which  musses  up  counterpanes 
and  keeps  outlandish  hours.  Aunt  Nettie  was  per- 
petually finding  fault  with  Poppy;  but  Missy  had 
noted  that  Aunt  Nettie  and  all  the  others  who 
emphasized  Poppy's  imperfections  were  people  whom 
Poppy,  in  her  turn,  for  some  reason  could  not  endure. 
This  point  she  tried  to  make  once  when  Poppy  had 
been  convicted  of  a  felonious  scratch,  but  of  course 
the  grown-ups  couldn't  follow  her  reasoning.  Long 
since  she'd  given  up  trying  to  make  clear  the  real 
merits  of  her  pet;  she  only  knew  that  Poppy  was 


220  Missy 

more  loving  and  lovable,  more  sympathetic  and  com- 
prehending, than  the  majority  of  humans.  She  could 
count  on  Poppy's  never  jarring  on  any  mood,  whether 
grave  or  gay.  Poppy  adored  listening  to  poetry  read 
aloud,  sitting  immovable  save  for  slowly  blinking 
eyes  for  an  hour  at  a  stretch.  She  even  had  an  ap- 
preciation for  music,  often  remaining  in  the  parlour 
throughout  her  mistress's  practice  period,  and  some- 
times purring  an  accompaniment  to  tunes  she  espe- 
cially liked — such  tunes  as  "The  Maiden's  Prayer" 
or  "Old  Black  Joe  with  Variations."  There  was,  too, 
about  her  a  touch  of  something  which  Missy  thought 
must  be  mysticism;  for  Poppy  heard  sounds  and  saw 
things  which  no  one  else  could — following  these 
invisible  objects  with  attentive  eyes  while  Missy 
saw  nothing;  then,  sometimes,  she  would  get  up 
suddenly,  switching  her  tail,  and  watch  them  as 
they  evidently  disappeared.  But  Missy  never  men- 
tioned Poppy's  gift  of  second  sight;  she  knew  the 
old  people  would  only  laugh. 

Now  she  cuddled  Poppy  in  her  lap,  and  with  a 
sense  of  companionship,  enjoyed  the  landscape  of 
silvered  loveliness  and  peace.  A  sort  of  sad  enjoy- 
ment, but  pleasantly  sad.  Occasionally  she  sighed, 
but  it  was  a  sigh  of  deep  content.  Such  things  as 
perching  dizzily  atop  a  horse's  back,  even  cantering 
in  graceful  insouciance,  seemed  far,  far  away. 

Yet,  after  she  was  in  her  little  white  bed,  in  smil- 
ing dreams  she  saw  herself,  smartly  accoutred  in 
gleaming  boots  and  pepper-and-salt  riding-breeches, 
galloping  up  to  Picker's  grocery  and  there,  in  the 


Business  of  Blushing  221 

admiring  view  of  the  Post  Office  loafers  and  of  a 
dumbfounded  Arthur,  cantering  insouciantly  across 
the  sidewalk  and  into  the  store ! 

Her  dream  might  have  ended  there,  nothing  more 
than  a  fleeting  phantasm,  had  not  Tess,  the  follow- 
ing week,  come  into  possession  of  Gypsy. 

Gypsy  was  a  black  pony  with  a  white  star  on  her 
forehead  and  a  long  wavy  tail.  She  was  a  pony 
with  a  personality — from  the  start  Missy  recognized 
the  pony  as  a  person  just  as  she  recognized  Poppy 
as  a  person.  When  Gypsy  gazed  at  you  out  of  those 
soft,  bright  eyes,  or  when  she  pricked  up  her  ears 
with  an  alert  listening  gesture,  or  when  she  turned 
her  head  and  switched  her  tail  with  nonchalant  un- 
concern— oh,  it  is  impossible  to  describe  the  charm 
of  Gypsy.  That  was  it — "charm";  and  the  minute 
Missy  laid  eyes  on  the  darling  she  succumbed  to  it. 
She  had  thought  herself  absurdly  but  deep-rootedly 
afraid  of  all  horseflesh,  but  Gypsy  didn't  seem  a 
mere  horse.  She  was  pert,  coquettish,  coy,  loving, 
inquisitive,  naughty;  both  Tess  and  Missy  declared 
she  had  really  human  intelligence. 

She  began  to  manifest  this  the  very  day  of  her  ar- 
rival. After  Tess  had  ridden  round  the  town  and 
shown  off  properly,  she  left  the  pony  in  the  side- 
yard  of  the  sanitarium  while  she  and  Missy  slipped 
off  to  the  summerhouse  to  enjoy  a  few  stolen  chap- 
ters from  "The  Duchess."  There  was  high  need  for 
secrecy  for,  most  unreasonably,  "The  Duchess"  had 
been  put  under  a  parental  ban;  moreover  Tess  feared 
there  were  stockings  waiting  to  be  darned. 


222  Missy 

Presently  they  heard  Mrs.  O'Neill  calling,  but 
they  just  sat  still,  stifling  their  giggles.  Gypsy,  who 
had  sauntered  up  to  the  summerhouse  door,  poked 
in  an  inquisitive  nose.  Mrs.  O'Neill  didn't  call 
again,  so  Tess  whispered:  "She  thinks  we've  gone 
over  to  your  house — we  can  go  on  reading." 

After  a  while  Missy  glanced  up  and  nudged  Tess. 
"Gypsy's  still  there — just  standing  and  looking  at 
us!  See  her  bright  eyes — the  darling!" 

"Yes,  isn't  she  cute?"  agreed  Tess. 

But,  just  at  that,  a  second  shadow  fell  athwart 
the  sunny  sward,  a  hand  pushed  Gypsy's  head  from 
the  opening,  and  Mrs.  O'Neill's  voice  said: 

"If  you  girls  don't  want  your  whereabouts  given 
away,  you'd  better  teach  that  pony  not  to  stand 
with  her  head  poked  in  the  door  for  a  half-hour  with- 
out budging!" 

The  ensuing  scolding  wasn't  pleasant,  but  neither 
of  the  miscreants  had  the  heart  to  blame  Gypsy. 
She  was  so  cute. 

She  certainly  was  cute. 

The  second  day  of  her  ownership  Tess  judged  it 
necessary  to  give  Gypsy  a  switching;  Gypsy  de- 
clined to  be  saddled  and  went  circling  round  and 
round  the  yard  in  an  abandon  of  playfulness.  So 
Tess  snapped  off  a  peach-tree  switch  and,  finally 
cornering  the  pony,  proceeded  to  use  it.  Missy 
pleaded,  but  Tess  stood  firm  for  discipline.  How- 
ever Gypsy  revenged  herself;  for  two  hours  she 
wouldn't  let  Tess  come  near  her — she'd  sidle  up  and 
lay  her  velvet  nose  against  Missy's  shoulder  until 


Business  of  Blushing  223 

Tess  was  within  an  arm's   length,  and  then,  tossing 
her  head  spitefully,  caper  away. 

No  wonder  the  girls  ejaculated  at  her  smartness. 

Finally  she  turned  gentle  as  a  lamb,  soft  as  silk, 
and  let  Tess  adjust  the  saddle;  but  scarcely  had  Tess 
ridden  a  block  before — wrench! — something  hap- 
pened to  the  saddle,  and  Tess  was  left  seated  by  the 
roadside  while  Gypsy  vanished  in  a  cloud  of  dust. 
The  imp  had  deliberately  swelled  herself  out  so  that 
the  girth  would  be  loose! 

Every  day  brought  new  revelations  of  Gypsy's  in- 
telligence. Missy  took  to  spending  every  spare  min- 
ute at  Tess's.  Under  this  new  captivation  her  own 
pet,  Poppy,  was  thoughtlessly  neglected.  And  du- 
ties such  as  practicing,  dusting  and  darning  were  de- 
liberately shirked.  Even  reading  had  lost  much 
of  its  wonted  charm:  the  haunting,  soul-swelling 
rhythms  of  poetry,  or  the  oddly  phrased  medieval 
romances  which  somehow  carried  you  back  through 
the  centuries — into  the  very  presence  of  those  queen- 
ly heroines  who  trail  their  robes  down  the  golden 
stairways  of  legend.  But  Missy's  feet  seemed  to 
have  forgotten  the  familiar  route  to  the  Public  Li- 
brary and,  instead,  ever  turned  eagerly  toward  the 
O'Neills' — that  is,  toward  the  O'Neills'  barn. 

And,  if  she  had  admired  Tess  before,  she  worship- 
ped her  now  for  so  generously  permitting  another  to 
share  the  wonderful  pony — it  was  like  being  a  half 
owner.  And  the  odd  thing  was  that,  though  Gypsy 
had  undeniable  streaks  of  wildness,  Missy  never  felt 
a  tremor  while  on  her.  On  Gypsy  she  cantered,  she 


224  Missy 

trotted,  she  galloped,  just  as  naturally  and  enjoyably 
as  though  she  had  been  born  on  horseback.  Then 
one  epochal  day,  emulating  Tess's  example,  she  es- 
sayed to  ride  astride.  It  was  wonderful.  She  could 
imagine  herself  a  Centaur  princess.  And,  curiously, 
she  felt  not  at  all  embarrassed.  Yet  she  was  glad 
that,  back  there  in  the  lot,  she  was  screened  by  the 
big  barn  from  probably  critical  eyes. 

But  Gypsy  made  an  unexpected  dart  into  the 
barn-door,  through  the  barn,  and  out  into  the  yard, 
before  Missy  realized  the  capricious  creature's  in- 
tent. And,  as  luck  would  have  it,  the  Reverend 
MacGill  was  sitting  on  the  porch,  calling  on  Grand- 
ma Shears.  If  only  it  had  been  anybody  but  Rev. 
MacGill!  Missy  cherished  a  secret  but  profound 
admiration  for  Rev.  MacGill;  he  had  come  recently 
to  Cherryvale  and  was  younger  than  ministers  usu- 
ally are  and,  though  not  exactly  handsome,  had  fas- 
cinating dark  glowing  eyes.  Now,  as  his  eyes  turned 
toward  her,  she  suddenly  prickled  with  embarrass- 
ment— her  legs  were  showing  to  her  knees !  She  tried 
vainly  to  pull  down  her  skirt,  then  tried  to  head 
Gypsy  toward  the  barn.  But  Grandma  Shears,  in 
scandalized  tones,  called  out: 

"Why,  Melissa  Merriam!  Get  down  off  that  horse 
immediately!" 

Shamefacedly  Missy  obeyed,  but  none  too  grace- 
fully since  her  legs  were  not  yet  accustomed  to  that 
straddling  position. 

"What  in  the  world  will  you  girls  be  up  to  next?" 
Grandma  Shears  went  on,  looking  like  an  outraged 


Business  of  Blushing  225 

Queen  Victoria.  "I  don't  know  what  this  genera- 
tion's coming  to,"  she  lamented,  turning  to  the  min- 
ister. "Young  girls  try  to  act  like  hoodlums — delib- 
erately try!  In  my  day  girls  were  trained  to  be — 
and  desired  to  be — little  ladies." 

Little  ladies!  —  in  the  minister's  presence,  the 
phrase  didn't  fall  pleasantly  on  Missy's  ear. 

"Oh,  they  don't  mean  any  harm,"  he  replied. 
"Just  a  little  innocent  frolic." 

There  was  a  ghost  of  a  twinkle  in  his  eyes.  Missy 
didn't  know  whether  to  be  grateful  for  his  tolerance 
or  only  more  chagrined  because  he  was  laughing  at 
her.  She  stood,  feeling  red  as  a  beet,  while  Grand- 
ma Shears  retorted: 

"Innocent  frolic — nonsense!  I'll  speak  to  my 
daughter!"  Then,  to  Missy:  "Now  take  that  pony 
back  to  the  lot,  please,  and  let's  see  no  more  such 
disgraceful  exhibitions!" 

Missy  felt  as  though  she'd  been  whipped.  She 
felt  cold  all  over  and  shivered,  as  she  led  Gypsy 
back,  though  she  knew  she  was  blushing  furiously. 
Concealed  behind  the  barn  door,  peeping  through  a 
crack,  was  Tess. 

"It  was  awful!"  moaned  Missy.  "I  can  never 
face  Rev.  MacGill  again!" 

"Oh,  he's  a  good  sport,"  said  Tess. 

"She  gave  me  an  awful  calling  down." 

"Oh,  grandma's  an  old  fogy."  Missy  had  heard 
Tess  thus  pigeonhole  her  grandmother  often  before, 
but  now,  for  the  first  time,  she  didn't  feel  a  little 
secret  repugnance  for  the  rude  classification.  Grand- 


226  Missy 

ma  Shears  was  old-fogyish.  But  it  wasn't  her  old- 
fogyishness,  per  se>  that  irritated;  it  was  the  fact 
that  her  old-fogyishness  had  made  her  "call  down" 
Missy — in  front  of  the  minister.  Just  as  if  Missy 
were  a  child.  Fifteen  is  not  a  child,  to  itself.  And 
it  can  rankle  and  burn,  when  a  pair  of  admired  dark 
eyes  are  included  in  the  situation,  just  as  torture- 
somely  as  can  twice  fifteen. 

The  Reverend  MacGill  was  destined  to  play  an- 
other unwitting  part  in  Missy's  athletic  drama  which 
was  so  jumbled  with  ecstasies  and  discomfitures.  A 
few  days  later  he  was  invited  to  the  Merriams'  for 
supper.  Missy  heard  of  his  coming  with  mingled 
emotions.  Of  course  she  thrilled  at  the  prospect  of 
eating  at  the  same  table  with  him — listening  to  a 
person  at  table,  and  watching  him  eat,  gives  you  a 
singular  sense  of  intimacy.  But  there  was  that  rid- 
ing astride  episode.  Would  he,  maybe,  mention  it 
and  cause  mother  to  ask  questions  ?  Maybe  not,  for 
he  was,  as  Tess  had  said,  a  "good  sport."  But  all 
the  same  he'd  probably  be  thinking  of  it;  if  he  should 
look  at  her  again  with  that  amused  twinkle,  she  felt 
she  would  die  of  shame. 

That  afternoon  she  had  been  out  on  Gypsy  and, 
chancing  to  ride  by  home  on  her  way  back  to  the 
sanitarium  barn,  was  hailed  by  her  mother. 
"Missy!    I  want  you  to  gather  some  peaches!" 
"Well,  I'll  have  to  take  Gypsy  home  first." 
"No,  you  won't  have  time — it's  after  five  already, 
and  I  want  to  make  a  deep-dish  peach  pie.    I  hear 
Rev.  MacGill's  especially  fond  of  it.    You  can  take 


Business  of  Blushing  227 

Gypsy  home  after  supper.    Now  hurry  up! — I'm  be- 
hindhand already." 

So  Missy  led  Gypsy  into  the  yard  and  took  the 
pail  her  mother  brought  out  to  her. 

"The  peaches  aren't  quite  ripe,"  said  mother,  with 
a  little  worried  pucker,  "but  they'll  have  to  do. 
They  have  some  lovely  peaches  at  Picker's,  but  papa 
won't  hear  of  my  trading  at  Picker's  any  more." 

Missy  thought  it  silly  of  her  father  to  have  cur- 
tailed trading  at  Picker's — she  missed  Arthur's  daily 
visit  to  the  kitchen  door  with  the  delivery-basket — 
merely  because  Mr.  Picker  had  beaten  father  for 
election  on  the  Board  of  Aldermen.  Father  explained 
it  was  a  larger  issue  than  party  politics;  even  had 
Picker  been  a  Republican  he'd  have  fought  him,  he 
said,  for  everyone  knew  Pieker  was  abetting  the 
Waterworks  graft.  But  Missy  didn't  see  why  that 
should  keep  him  from  buying  things  from  Picker's 
which  mother  really  needed;  mother  said  it  was  "cut- 
ting off  your  nose  to  spite  your  face." 

Philosophizing  on  the  irrationality  of  old  people, 
she  proceeded  to  get  enough  scarcely-ripe  peaches  for 
a  deep-dish  pie.  Being  horribly  afraid  of  climbing, 
she  used  the  simple  expedient  of  grasping  the  lower 
limbs  of  the  tree  and  shaking  down  the  fruit. 

"Missy!"  called  mother's  voice  from  the  dining 
room  window.  "That  horse  is  slobbering  all  over 
the  peaches!" 

"I  can't  help  it — she  follows  me  every  place." 

"Then  you'll  have  to  tie  her  up!" 

"Tess  never  ties  her  up  in  their  yard!" 


228  Missy 

"Well,  I  won't  have  him  slobbering  over  the 
fruit,"  repeated  mother  firmly. 

"I'll — climb  the  tree,"  said  Missy  desperately. 

And  she  did.  She  was  in  mortal  terror — every 
second  she  was  sure  she  was  going  to  fall — but  she 
couldn't  bear  the  vision  of  Gypsy's  reproachful  eyes 
above  a  strangling  halter;  Gypsy  shouldn't  think  her 
hostess,  so  to  speak,  less  kind  than  her  own  mistress. 

The  peach  pie  came  out  beautifully  and  the  sup- 
per promised  to  be  a  great  success.  Mother  had 
zealously  ascertained  Rev.  MacGill's  favourite  dishes, 
and  was  flushed  but  triumphant;  she  came  of  a 
devout  family  that  loved  to  feed  preachers  well. 
And  everyone  was  in  fine  spirits;  only  Missy,  at  the 
first,  had  a  few  bad  moments.  Would  he  mention 
it?  He  might  think  it  his  duty,  think  that  mother 
should  know.  It  was  maybe  his  duty  to  tell.  Preach- 
ers have  a  sterner  creed  of  duty  than  other  people, 
of  course.  She  regarded  him  anxiously  from  under 
the  veil  of  her  lashes,  wondering  what  would  happen 
if  he  did  tell.  Mother  would  be  horribly  ashamed, 
and  she  herself  would  be  all  the  more  ashamed  be- 
cause mother  was.  Aunt  Nettie  would  be  satirically 
disapproving  and  say  cutting  things.  Father  would 
probably  just  laugh,  but  later  he'd  be  serious  and 
severe.  And  not  one  of  them  would  ever,  ever  un- 
derstand. 

As  the  minutes  went  by,  her  strain  of  suspense 
gradually  lessened.  Rev.  MacGill  was  chatting  away 
easily — about  the  delicious  chicken-stuffing  and 
quince  jelly,  and  the  election,  and  the  repairs  on  the 


Business  of  Blushing  229 

church  steeple,  and  things  like  that.  Now  and  then 
he  caught  Missy's  eye,  but  his  expression  for  her 
was  exactly  the  same  as  for  the  others — no  one  could 
suspect  there  was  any  secret  between  them.  He  was 
a  good  sport! 

Once  a  shadow  passed  outside  the  window.  Gyp- 
sy! Missy  saw  that  he  saw,  and,  as  his  glance  came 
back  to  rest  upon  herself,  for  a  second  her  heart 
surged.  But  something  in  his  eyes — she  couldn't  de- 
fine exactly  what  it  was  save  that  it  was  neither  cen- 
sorious nor  quizzical — subtly  gave  her  reassurance.  It 
was  as  if  he  had  told  her  in  so  many  words  that 
everything  was  all  right,  for  her  not  to  worry  the 
least  little  bit.  All  of  a  sudden  she  felt  blissfully  at 
peace.  She  smiled  at  him  for  no  reason  at  all,  and 
he  srm'led  back — a  nice,  not  at  all  amused  kind  of 
smile.  Oh,  he  was  a  perfect  brick!  And  what  glori- 
ous eyes  he  had!  And  that  fascinating  habit  of 
flinging  his  hair  back  with  a  quick  toss  of  the  head. 
How  gracefully  he  used  his  hands.  And  what  love- 
ly, distinguished  table  manners — she  must  practice 
that  trick  of  lifting  your  napkin,  delicately  and  swift- 
ly, so  as  to  barely  touch  your  lips.  She  ate  her  own 
food  in  a  kind  of  trance,  unaware  of  what  she  was 
eating;  yet  it  was  like  eating  supper  in  heaven. 

And  then,  at  the  very  end,  something  terrible  hap- 
pened. Marguerite  had  brought  in  the  ptice  de  re- 
sistance, the  climactic  dish  toward  which  mother  had 
built  the  whole  meal — the  deep-dish  peach  pie,  sugar- 
coated,  fragrant  and  savory — and  placed  it  on  the 
serving-table  near  the  open  window.  There  was  a 


230  Missy 

bit,  of  wire  loose  at  the  lower  end  of  the  screen,  and, 
in  the  one  second  Marguerite's  back  was  turned — 
just  one  second,  but  just  long  enough — Missy  saw  a 
velvety  nose  fumble  with  the  loose  wire,  saw  a  sleek 
neck  wedge  itself  through  the  crevice,  and  a  long  red 
tongue  lap  approvingly  over  the  sugar-coated  crust. 

Missy  gasped  audibly.  Mother  followed  her  eyes, 
turned,  saw,  jumped  up — but  it  was  too  late.  Mrs. 
Merriam  viciously  struck  at  Gypsy's  muzzle  and 
pushed  the  encroaching  head  back  through  the  aper- 
ture. 

"Get  away  from  here!"  she  cried  angrily.  "You 
little  beast!" 

"I  think  the  pony  shows  remarkably  good  taste," 
commented  Rev.  MacGill,  trying  to  pass  the  calam- 
ity off  as  a  joke.  But  his  hostess  wasn't  capable  of 
an  answering  smile;  she  gazed  despairingly,  tragic- 
ally, at  the  desecrated  confection. 

"I  took  such  pains  with  it,"  she  almost  wailed. 
"It  was  a  deep-dish  peach  pie — I  made  it  specially 
for  Mr.  MacGill." 

"Well,  I'm  not  particularly  fond  of  peach  pie, 
anyway,"  said  the  minister,  meaning  to  be  soothing. 

"Oh,  but  I  know  you  are!  Mrs.  Allen  said  that 
at  her  house  you  took  two  helpings — that  you  said  it 
was  your  favourite  dessert." 

The  minister  coughed  a  little  cough — he  was 
caught  in  a  somewhat  delicate  situation;  then,  al- 
ways tactful,  replied:  "Perhaps  I  did  say  that — her 
peach  pie  was  very  good.  But  I'm  equally  fond_of 
all  sweets — I  have  a  sweet  tooth." 


Business  of  Blushing  23 1 

At  this  point  Missy  gathered  her  courage  to  quaver 
a  suggestion.  "Couldn't  you  just  take  off  the  top 
crust,  mother?  Gypsy  didn't  touch  the  underneath 
part.  Why  can't  you  just — " 

But  her  mother's  scandalized  look  silenced  her. 
She  must  have  made  a.  faux  pas.  Father  and  Rev. 
MacGill  laughed  outright,  and  Aunt  Nettie  smiled  a 
withering  smile. 

"That's  a  brilliant  idea,"  she  said  satirically. 
"Perhaps  you'd  have  us  pick  out  the  untouched  bits 
of  the  crust,  too!"  Missy  regarded  her  aunt  re- 
proachfully but  helplessly;  she  was  too  genuinely 
upset  for  any  repartee.  Why  did  Aunt  Nettie  like 
to  put  her  "in  wrong"?  Her  suggestion  seemed  to 
her  perfectly  reasonable.  Why  didn't  they  act  on 
it?  But  of  course  they'd  ignore  it,  just  making  fun 
of  her  now  but  punishing  her  afterward.  For  she 
divined  very  accurately  that  they  would  hold  her 
accountable  for  Gypsy's  blunder — even  though  the 
blunder  was  rectifiable;  it  was  a  big  pie,  and  most  of 
it  as  good  as  ever.  They  were  unreasonable,  unjust. 

Mother  seemed  unable  to  tear  herself  away  from 
the  despoiled  masterpiece. 

"Come,  mamma,"  said  father,  "it's  nothing  to 
make  such  a  fuss  about.  Just  trot  out  some  of  that 
apple  sauce  of  yours.  Mr.  MacGill  doesn't  get  to 
taste  anything  like  that  every  day."  He  turned  to 
the  minister.  "The  world's  full  of  apple  sauce — but 
there's  apple  sauce  and  apple  sauce.  Now  my  wife's 
apple  sauce  is  apple  sauce!  I  tell  her  it's  a  dish  for 
a  king." 


232  Missy 

And  Rev.  MacGill,  after  sampling  the  impromptu 
dessert,  assured  his  hostess  that  her  husband's  eulogy 
had  been  only  too  moderate.  He  vowed  he  had 
never  eaten  such  apple  sauce.  But  Mrs.  Merriam 
still  looked  bleak.  She  knew  she  could  make  a  bet- 
ter deep-dish  peach  pie  than  Mrs.  Allen  could.  And, 
then,  to  give  the  minister  apple  sauce  and  nabiscos! 
— the  first  time  he  had  eaten  at  her  table  in  two 
months ! 

Missy,  who  knew  her  mother  well,  couldn't  help 
feeling  a  deep  degree  of  sympathy;  besides,  she 
wished  Rev.  MacGill  might  have  had  his  pie — she 
liked  Rev.  MacGill  better  than  ever.  But  she 
dreaded  her  first  moments  after  the  guest  had  de- 
parted; mother  could  be  terribly  stern. 

Nor  did  her  fears  prove  groundless. 

"Now,  Missy,"  ordered  her  mother  in  coldly  irate 
tones,  "you  take  that  horse  straight  back  to  Tess. 
This  is  the  last  straw!  For  days  you've  been  no 
earthly  use — your  practicing  neglected,  no  time  for 
your  chores,  just  nothing  but  that  everlasting  horse!" 

That  everlasting  horse!  Missy's  chin  quivered 
and  her  eyes  filled.  But  mother  went  on  inflexibly: 
"I  don't  want  you  ever  to  bring  it  here  again.  And 
you  can't  go  on  living  at  Tess's,  either!  We'll  see 
that  you  catch  up  with  your  practicing." 

"But,  mother,"  tremulously  seeking  for  an  argu- 
ment, "I  oughtn't  to  give  up  such  a  fine  chance  to 
become  a  horsewoman,  ought  I?" 

It  was  an  unlucky  phrase,  for  Aunt  Nettie  was 
there  to  catch  it  up. 


Business  of  Blushing  233 

"A  horsewoman!"  and  she  laughed  in  sardonic 
glee.  "Well,  I  must  admit  there's  one  thing  horsey 
enough  about  you — you  always  smell  of  manure, 
these  days." 

Wounded  and  on  the  defensive,  Missy  tried  to 
make  her  tone  chilly.  "I  wish  you  wouldn't  be  so 
indelicate,  Aunt  Nettie,"  she  said. 

But  Aunt  Nettie  wasn't  abashed.  "A  horsewom- 
an!" she  chortled  again.  "I  suppose  Missy  sees  her- 
self riding  to  hou'nds !  All  dressed  up  in  a  silk  hat 
and  riding-breeches  like  pictures  of  society  people 
back  East!" 

It  didn't  add  to  Missy's  comfiture  to  know  she 
had,  in  truth,  harboured  this  ridiculed  vision  of  her- 
self. She  coloured  and  stood  hesitant. 

"Someone  ought  to  put  pants  on  that  O'Neill  girl, 
anyway,"  continued  Aunt  Nettie  with  what  seemed 
to  her  niece  unparallelled  malice.  "Helen  Alison 
says  the  Doctor  saw  her  out  in  the  country  riding 
astraddle.  Her  mother  ought  to  spank  her." 

Mother  looked  at  Missy  sharply.  "Don't  let  me 
ever  hear  of  you  doing  anything  like  that!" 

Missy  hung  her  head,  but  luckily  mother  took  it 
for  just  a  general  attitude  of  dejection.  "I  can't 
tolerate  tomboys,"  she  went  on.  "I  can't  imagine 
what's  come  over  you  lately." 

"It's  that  O'Neill  girl,"  said  Aunt  Nettie. 

Mother  sighed;  Missy  couldn't  know  she  was  la- 
menting the  loss  of  her  sweet,  shy,  old-fashioned  lit- 
tle girl.  But  when  she  spoke  next  her  accents  were 
firm. 


234  Missy 

"Now  you  go  and  take  that  horse  home.  But  come 
straight  back  and  get  to  bed  so  you  can  get  an  early 
start  at  your  practicing  in  the  morning.  Right  here 
I'm  going  to  put  my  foot  down.  It  isn't  because  I 
want  to  be  harsh — but  you  never  seem  to  know  when 
to  stop  a  thing.  It's  all  well  and  good  to  be  fond  of 
dumb  animals,  but  when  it  comes  to  a  point  where 
you  can  think  of  nothing  else— 

The  outstanding  import  of  the  terrific  and  unjust 
tirade  was  that  Missy  should  not  go  near  the  sani- 
tarium or  the  pony  for  a  week. 

When  mother  "put  her  foot  down"  like  that,  hope 
was  gone,  indeed.  And  a  whole  week!  That  was  a 
long,  long  time  when  hope  is  deferred — especially 
when  one  is  fifteen  and  all  days  are  long.  At  first 
Missy  didn't  see  how  she  was  ever  to  live  through 
the  endless  period,  but,  strangely  enough,  the  drag- 
ging days  brought  to  her  a  change  of  mood.  It  is 
odd  how  the  colour  of  our  mood,  so  to  speak,  can 
utterly  change;  how  one  day  we  can  desire  one  kind 
of  thing  acutely  and  then,  the  very  next  day,  crave 
something  quite  different. 

One  morning  Missy  awoke  to  a  dawn  of  mildest 
sifted  light  and  bediamonded  dew  upon  the  grass; 
soft  plumes  of  silver,  through  the  mist,  seemed  to 
trim  the  vines  of  the  summerhouse  and  made  her 
catch  her  breath  in  ecstasy.  All  of  a  sudden  she 
wanted  nothing  so  much  as  to  get  a  book  and  steal 
off  alone  somewhere.  The  right  kind  of  a  book,  of 
course — something  sort  of  strange  and  sad  that 
would  make  your  strange,  sad  feelings  mount  up 


Business  of  Blushing  235 

and  up  inside  you  till  you  could  almost  die  of  your 
beautiful  sorrow. 

As  soon  as  her  routine  of  duties  was  finished  she 
gained  permission  to  go  to  the  Library.  As  she 
walked  slowly,  musingly,  down  Maple  Avenue,  her 
emotions  were  fallow  ground  for  every  touch  of  Na- 
ture: the  slick  greensward  of  all  the  lawns,  glisten- 
ing under  the  torrid  azure  of  the  great  arched  sky, 
made  walking  along  the  shady  sidewalk  inexpress- 
ibly sweet;  the  many-hued  flowers  in  all  the  flower- 
beds seemed  to  sing  out  their  vying  colours;  the 
strong  hard  wind  passed  almost  visible  fingers  through 
the  thick,  rustling  mane  of  the  trees.  Oh,  she  hoped 
she  would  find  the  right  kind  of  book! 

Mother,  back  on  the  porch,  looked  up  from  her 
sewing  to  watch  the  disappearing  figure,  and  smiled. 

"We  have  our  little  girl  back  again,"  she  observed 
to  Aunt  Nettie. 

"I  wish  that  O'Neill  girl'd  move  away,"  Aunt 
Nettie  said.  "Missy's  a  regular  chameleon." 

It's  a  pity  Missy  couldn't  hear  her  new  classifica- 
tion; it  would  have  interested  her  tremendously;  she 
was  always  interested  in  the  perplexing  vagaries  of 
her  own  nature.  However,  at  the  Library,  she  was 
quite  happy;  for  she  found  two  books,  each  the  right 
kind,  though  different.  One  was  called  "Famous 
Heroines  of  Medieval  Legend."  They  all  had  names 
of  strange  beauty  and  splendour — Guinevere — Elaine 
— Vivien — names  which  softly  rustled  in  syllables  of 
silken  brocade.  The  other  book  was  no  less  satisfy- 
ing. It  was  a  book  of  poems — wonderful  poems,  by 


236  Missy 

a  man  named  Swinburne — lilting,  haunting  things  of 
beauty  which  washed  through  her  soul  like  the  waves 
of  a  sun-bejewelled  sea.  She  read  the  choicest  verses 
over  and  over  till  she  knew  them  by  heart: 

Before  the  beginning  of  years,  there  came  to  the  making  of  man 
Grief  with  her  gift  of  tears,  and  Time  with  her  glass  that  ran  .  .  . 

and,  equally  lovely: 

From  too  much  love  of  living,  from  hope  and  fear  set  free. 
We  thank  with  brief  thanksgiving  whatever  gods  may  be 
That  no  life  lives  forever;  that  dead  men  rise  up  never; 
That  even  the  weariest  river  winds  somewhere  safe  to  sea   .   .   . 

The  verses  brought  her  beautiful,  stirring  thoughts 
to  weave  into  verses  of  her  own  when  she  should  find 
a  quiet  hour  in  the  summerhouse;  or  to  incorporate 
into  soul-soothing  improvisings  at  the  piano. 

Next  morning,  after  her  hour's  stint  at  finger  ex- 
ercises, she  improvised  and  it  went  beautifully.  She 
knew  it  was  a  success  both  because  of  her  exalted 
feelings  and  because  Poppy  meowed  out  in  discord- 
ant disapproval  only  once;  the  rest  of  the  time  Pop- 
py purred  as  appreciatively  as  for  "The  Maiden's 
Prayer."  Dear  Poppy!  Missy  felt  suddenly  con- 
trite for  her  defection  from  faithful  Poppy.  And 
Poppy  was  getting  old — Aunt  Nettie  said  she'd  al- 
ready lived  much  longer  than  most  cats.  She  might 
die  soon.  Through  a  swift  blur  of  tears  Missy  looked 
out  toward  the  summerhouse  where,  beneath  the 
ramblers,  she  decided  Poppy  should  be  buried.  Poor 
Poppy!  The  tears  came  so  fast  she  couldn't  wipe 
them  away.  She  didn't  dream  that  Swinburne  was 
primarily  responsible  for  those  tears. 


Business  of  Blushing  237 

Yet  even  her  sadness  held  a  strange,  poignant 
element  of  bliss.  It  struck  her,  oddly,  that  she  was 
almost  enjoying  her  week  of  punishment — that  she 
was  enjoying  it.  Why  was  she  enjoying  it,  since, 
when  mother  first  banned  athletic  pursuits,  she  had 
felt  like  a  martyr?  It  was  queer.  She  pondered  the 
mysterious  complexity  of  her  nature. 

There  passed  two  more  days  of  this  inexplicable 
content.  Then  came  the  thunder-storm.  It  was, 
perhaps,  the  thunder-storm  that  really  deserves  the 
blame  for  Missy's  climactic  athletic  catastrophe. 
No  lightning-bolt  struck,  yet  that  thunder-storm 
indubitably  played  its  part  in  Missy's  athletic 
destiny.  It  was  the  causation  of  renewed  turmoil 
after  time  of  peace. 

Tess  had  telephoned  that  morning  and  asked  Missy 
to  accompany  her  to  the  Library.  But  Missy  had 
to  practice.  In  her  heart  she  didn't  really  care  to 
go,  for,  after  her  stint  was  finished,  she  was  con- 
templating some  new  improvisings.  However,  the 
morning  didn't  go  well.  It  was  close  and  sultry 
and,  though  she  tried  to  make  her  fingers  march  and 
trot  and  gallop  as  the  exercises  dictated,  something 
in  the  oppressive  air  set  her  nerves  to  tingling. 
Besides  it  grew  so  dark  she  couldn't  see  the  notes 
distinctly.  Finally  she  abandoned  her  lesson;  but 
even  improvising  failed  of  its  wonted  charm.  Her 
fingers  kept  striking  the  wrong  keys.  Then  a 
sudden,  ear-splitting  thunder-clap  hurled  her  onto  a 
shrieking  discord. 

She  jumped  up  from  the  piano;  she  was  horribly 


238  Missy 

afraid  of  thunder-storms — mother  wouldn't  mind  if 
she  stopped  till  the  storm  was  over.  She  longed  to 
go  and  sit  close  to  mother,  to  feel  the  protection  of  her 
presence;  but,  despite  the  general  softening  of  her 
mood,  she  had  maintained  a  certain  stiffness  toward 
the  family.  So  she  crouched  on  a  sofa  in  the  darkest 
corner  of  the  room,  hiding  her  eyes,  stopping  her 
ears. 

Then  a  sudden  thought  brought  her  bolt  upright. 
Gypsy!  Tess  had  said  Gypsy  was  afraid  of  thunder- 
storms— awfully  afraid.  And  Gypsy  was  all  alone 
in  that  big,  gloomy  barn — Tess  blocks  away  at  the 
Library. 

She  tried  to  hide  amongst  the  cushions  again,  but 
visions  of  Gypsy,  with  her  bright  inquisitive  eyes, 
her  funny  little  petulances,  her  endearing  cajoleries, 
kept  rising  before  her.  She  felt  a  stab  of  remorse; 
that  she  could  have  let  even  the  delights  of  reading 
and  improvising  compensate  for  separation  from 
such  a  darling  pony.  She  had  been  selfish,  self- 
centred.  And  now  Gypsy  was  alone  in  that  old 
barn,  trembling  and  neighing.  .  .  . 

Finally,  unable  to  endure  the  picture  longer,  she 
crept  out  to  the  hall.  She  could  hear  mother  and 
Aunt  Nettie  in  the  sitting-room — she  couldn't  get 
an  umbrella  from  the  closet.  So,  without  umbrella 
or  hat,  she  stole  out  the  front  door.  Above  was  a 
continuous  network  of  flame  as  though  someone  were 
scratching  immense  matches  all  over  the  surface  of 
heaven,  but  doggedly  she  ran  on.  The  downpour 
caught  her,  but  on  she  sped  though  rain  and  hail 


Business  of  Blushing  239 

hammered  her  head,  blinded  her  eyes,  and  drove  her 
drenched  garments  against  her  flesh. 

She  found  Gypsy  huddled  quivering  and  taut  in  a 
corner  of  the  stall.  She  put  her  arms  round  the 
satiny  neck,  and  they  mutely  comforted  each  other. 
It  was  thus  that  Tess  discovered  them;  she,  too,  had 
run  to  Gypsy  though  it  had  taken  longer  as  she  had 
farther  to  go;  but  she  was  not  so  wet  as  Missy, 
having  borrowed  an  umbrella  at  the  Library. 

"7  didn't  wait  to  get  an  umbrella,"  Missy  couldn't 
forebear  commenting,  slightly  slurring  the  truth. 
'••  Tess  seemed  a  bit  annoyed.     "Well,  you  didn't 
have  to  go  out  in  the  rain  anyway.     Guess  I  can  be 
depended  on  to  look  out  for  my  own  pony,  can't  I?" 

But  Missy's  tactful  rejoinder  that  she'd  only 
feared  Tess  mightn't  be  able  to  accomplish  the 
longer  distance,  served  to  dissipate  the  shadow  of 
jealousy.  Before  the  summer  storm  had  impetu- 
ously spent  itself,  the  friends  were  crowded  com- 
panionably  in  the  feed-box,  feeding  the  reassured 
Gypsy  peppermint  sticks — Tess  had  met  Arthur 
Simpson  on  her  way  to  the  Library — and  talking 
earnestly. 

The  earnest  talk  was  born  of  an  illustration  Tess 
had  seen  in  a  magazine  at  the  Library.  It  was  a 
society  story  and  the  illustration  showed  the  heroine 
in  riding  costume. 

"She  looked  awfully  swagger,"  related  Tess. 
"Flicking  her  crop  against  her  boot,  and  a  derby 
hat  and  stock-collar  and  riding-breeches.  I  think 
breeches  are  a  lot  more  swagger  than  habits." 


240  Missy 

"Do  you  think  they're  a  little  bit — indelicate?" 
ventured  Missy,  remembering  her  mother's  recent 
invective  against  tomboys. 

"Of  course  not!"  denied  Tess  disdainfully.  "Va- 
lerie Jones  in  Macon  City  wears  'em  and  she's  awfully 
swell.  Her  father's  a  banker.  She's  in  the  thick 
of  things  at  the  Country  Club.  It's  depasse  to  ride 
side-saddle,  anyway." 

i  Missy  was  silent;  even  when  she  felt  herself  mis- 
understood by  her  family  and  maltreated,  she  had  a 
bothersome  conscience. 

"There's  no  real  class  to  riding  horseback,"  Tess 
went  on,  "unless  you're  up  to  date.  You  got  to  be 
up  to  date.  Of  course  Cherryvale's  slow,  but  that's 
no  reason  we've  got  to  be  slow,  is  it?" 

"No-o,"  agreed  Missy  hesitantly.  But  she  was 
emboldened  to  mention  her  father's  discarded  pepper- 
and-salt  trousers.  At  the  first  she  didn't  intend 
really  to  appropriate  them,  but  Tess  caught  up  the 
idea  enthusiastically.  She  immediately  began  mak- 
ing concrete  plans  and,  soon,  Missy  caught  her 
fervour.  That  picture  of  herself  as  a  dashing,  fearless 
horsewoman  had  come  to  life  again. 

When  she  got  home,  mother,  looking  worried,  was 
waiting  for  her. 

"Where  on  earth  have  you  been?  Look  at  that 
straggly  hair!  And  that  dress,  fresh  just  this  morn- 
ing— limp  as  a  dish-rag!" 

Missy  tried  to  explain,  but  the  anxiety  between 
mother's  eyes  deepened  to  lines  of  crossness. 

"For  heaven's  sake!    To  go  rushing  off  like  that 


Business  of  Blushing  241 

without  a  rain-coat  or  even  an  umbrella!  And  you 
pretend  to  be  afraid  of  thunder-storms!  Now, 
Missy,  it  isn't  because  you've  ruined  your  dress  or 
likely  caught  your  death  of  cold — but  to  think 
you'd  wilfully  disobey  me!  What  on  earth  am  I  to 
do  with  you?" 

She  made  Missy  feel  like  an  unregenerate  sinner. 
And  Missy  liked  her  stinging,  smarting  sensations 
no  better  because  she  felt  she  didn't  deserve  them. 
That  heavy  sense  of  injustice  somewhat  deadened 
any  pricks  of  guilt  when,  later,  she  stealthily  re- 
moved the  pepper-and-salts  from  the  upstairs  store- 
closet. 

But  Aunt  Nettie's  eagle  eyes  chanced  to  see  her. 
She  went  to  Mrs.  Merriam. 

"What  do  you  suppose  Missy  wants  of  those  old 
pepper-and-salt  pants?" 

"  I  don't  know,  Nettie.     Why  ? " 

"She's  just  sneaked  'em  off  to  her  room.  When 
she  saw  me  coming  up  the  stairs,  she  scampered  as 
if  Satan  was  after  her.  What  do  you  suppose  she 
wants  of  them  ? " 

"I  can't  imagine,"  repeated  Mrs.  Merriam. 
"Maybe  she  hardly  knows  herself — girls  that  age 
are  like  a  boiling  tea-kettle,  you  know;  their  imagi- 
nation keeps  bubbling  up  and  spilling  over,  and  then 
disappears  into  vapour.  I  sometimes  think  we 
bother  Missy  too  much  with  questions — she  doesn't 
know  the  answers  herself." 

Mrs.  Merriam  was  probably  feeling  the  compunc- 
tions mothers  often  feel  after  they  have  scolded. 


242  Missy 

Aunt  Nettie  sniffed  a  little,  but  Missy  wasn't  ques- 
tioned. And  now  the  scene  of  our  story  may  shift  to 
a  sunny  morning,  a  few  days  later,  and  to  the  com- 
parative seclusion  of  the  sanitarium  barn.  There 
has  been,  for  an  hour  or  more,  a  suppressed  sound  of 
giggles,  and  Gypsy,  sensing  excitement  in  the  air, 
stands  with  pricked-up  ears  and  bright,  inquisitive 
eyes.  Luckily  there  has  been  no  intruder — just  the 
three  of  them,  Gypsy  and  Missy  and  Tess. 

"You're  wonderful — simply  wonderful!  It's  sim- 
ply too  swagger  for  words!"  It  was  Tess  speaking. 

Missy  gazed  down  at  herself.  It  was  swagger, 
she  assured  herself.  It  must  be  swagger — Tess  said 
so.  Almost  as  swagger,  Tess  asseverated,  as  the 
riding  outfit  worn  by  Miss  Valerie  Jones  who  was  the 
swaggerest  member  of  Macon  City's  swaggerest 
young  set.  Yet,  despite  her  assurance  of  swagger- 
ness,  she  was  conscious  of  a  certain  uneasiness.  She 
knew  she  shouldn't  feel  embarrassed;  she  should  feel 
only  swagger.  But  she  couldn't  help  a  sense  of 
awkwardness,  almost  of  distaste;  her  legs  felt — and 
looked — so  queer!  So  conspicuous!  The  upper 
halves  of  them  were  clothed  in  two  separate  envelop- 
ments of  pepper-and-salt  material,  gathered  very  full 
and  puffy  over  the  hips  but  drawn  in  tightly  toward 
the  knee  in  a  particularly  swagger  fashion.  Below 
the  knee  the  swagger  tight  effect  was  sustained  by 
a  pair  of  long  buttoned  "leggings." 

"You're  sure  these  leggings  look  all  right?"  she 
demanded  anxiously. 

"Of  course  they  look  all  right!    They  look  fine!" 


Business  of  Blushing  243 

"I  wish  we  had  some  boots,"  with  a  smothered 
sigh. 

"Well,  they  don't  always  wear  boots.  Lots  of  'em 
in  Macon  City  only  wore  puttees.  And  puttees  are 
only  a  kind  of  leggings." 

"They're  so  tight,"  complained  the  horsewoman. 
"My  legs  have  got  a  lot  fatter  since — 

Thrusting  out  one  of  the  mentioned  members  in  a 
tentative  kick,  she  was  interrupted  by  the  popping 
of  an  already  overstrained  button. 

"See!"  she  finished  despondently.  "I  said  they 
were  too  tight." 

"You  oughtn't  to  kick  around  that  way,"  re- 
proved Tess.  "No  wonder  it  popped  orF,  Now,  I'll 
have  to  hunt  for  a  safety-pin — " 

"I  don't  want  a  safety-pin! — I'd  rather  let  it  flop." 

The  horsewoman  continued  to  survey  herself 
dubiously,  took  in  the  bright  scarlet  sweater  which 
formed  the  top  part  of  her  costume.  The  girls  had 
first  sought  a  more  tailored  variety  of  coat,  but  pdres 
Merriam  and  O'Neill  were  both,  selfishly,  very 
large  men;  Tess  had  brilliantly  bethought  the  sweater 
— the  English  always  wore  scarlet  for  hunting,  any- 
way. Missy  then  had  warmly  applauded  the  in- 
spiration, but  now  her  warmth  was  literal  rather  than 
figurative;  it  was  a  hot  day  and  the  sweater  was 
knitted  of  heavy  wool.  She  fingered  her  stock  collar 
—one  of  Mrs.  O'Neill's  guest  towels — and  tried  to 
adjust  her  derby  more  securely. 

"Your  father  has  an  awfully  big  head,"  she 
commented. 


244  Missy 

"Oh,  they  always  wear  their  hats  way  down  over 
their  ears."  Then,  a  little  vexed  at  this  necessity 
for  repeated  reassurance,  Tess  broke  out  irritably: 

"If  you  don't  want  to  wear  the  get-up,  say  so!  /'// 
wear  it!  I  only  let  you  wear  it  first  trying  to  be  nice 
to  you!" 

Then  Missy,  who  had  been  genuinely  moved  by 
Tess's  decision  that  the  first  wearing  of  the  costume 
should  make  up  for  her  chum's  week  of  punishment, 
pulled  herself  together. 

"Of  course  I  want  to  wear  it,"  she  declared.  "I 
think  it's  just  fine  of  you  to  let  me  wear  it  first." 
>i  She  spoke  sincerely;  yet,  within  the  hour,  she  was 
plotting  to  return  her  friend's  sacrifice  with  a  sort  of 
mean  trick.  Perhaps  it  was  fit  and  just  that  the 
trick  turned  topsy-turvy  on  herself  as  it  did.  Yet 
the  notion  did  not  come  to  her  in  the  guise  of  a  trick 
on  Tess.  No;  it  came  just  as  a  daring,  dashing, 
splendid  feat  in  which  she  herself  should  trium- 
phantly figure — she  scarcely  thought  of  Tess  at  all. 

It  came  upon  her,  in  all  its  dazzling  possibilities, 
while  she  was  cantering  along  the  old  road  which 
runs  back  of  Smith's  woods.  She  and  Tess  had 
agreed  it  would  be  best,  till  they'd  "broke  in"  Cher- 
ryvale  to  the  novelty  of  breeches,  to  keep  to  unfre- 
quented roads.  But  it  was  the  inconspicuousness  of 
the  route,  the  lack  of  an  admiring  audience,  which 
gave  birth  to  Missy's  startling  Idea.  Back  in  the 
barn  she'd  felt  self-conscious.  But  now  she  was  get- 
ting used  to  her  exposed  legs.  And  doing  really 
splendidly  on  Dr.  O'Neill's  saddle.  Sitting  there 


Business  of  Blushing  245 

astride,  swaying  in  gentle  rhythm  with  Gypsy's 
springing  motion  she  began  to  feel  truly  dashing,  su- 
premely swagger.  She  seemed  lifted  out  of  herself, 
no  longer  timid,  commonplace,  unathletic  Missy 
Merriam,  but  exalted  into  a  sort  of  free-and-easy , 
Princess  Royal  of  Swaggerdom.  She  began  to  wish 
someone  might  see  her.  .  .  . 

Then  startling,  compelling,  tantalizing,  came  the 
Idea.  Why  not  ride  openly  back  into  Cherryvale, 
right  up  Main  Street,  right  by  the  Post  Office?  All 
those  old  loafers  would  see  her  who'd  laughed  the 
day  she  tumbled  off  of  Ned.  Well,  they'd  laugh  the 
other  way,  now.  And  Arthur  Simpson,  too.  Maybe 
she'd  even  ride  into  Picker's  store! — that  certainly 
would  surprise  Arthur.  True  it  was  Tess  he'd 
"dared,"  but  of  course  he  had  not  dreamed  she, 
Missy,  would  ever  take  it  up.  He  considered  her  un- 
athletic— sort  of  ridiculous.  Wouldn't  it  be  great  to 
"show"  him?  She  visioned  the  amazement,  the  ad- 
miration, the  respect,  which  would  shine  in  his  eyes 
as,  insouciantly  and  yet  with  dash,  she  deftly  ma- 
noeuvred Gypsy's  reins  and  cantered  right  into  the 
store ! 

Afterwards  she  admitted  that  a  sort  of  madness 
must  have  seized  her;  yet,  as  she  raced  back  toward 
the  town,  gently  swaying  in  unison  with  her  mount, 
her  pepper-and-salt  legs  pressing  the  pony's  sides 
with  authority,  she  felt  complacently,  exultantly 
sane. 

And  still  so  when,  blithe  and  debonair,  she  gal- 
loped up  Main  Street,  past  piazzas  she  pleasurably 


246  Missy 

sensed  were  not  unpeopled  nor  unimpressed;  past 
the  Court  House  whence  a  group  of  men  were'emerg- 
ing  and  stopped  dead  to  stare;  past  the  Post  Office 
where  a  crowd  awaiting  the  noon  mail  swelled  the 
usual  bunch  of  loafers;  on  to  Picker's  where,  sure 
enough,  Arthur  stood  in  the  door! 

"Holy  cats!"  he  ejaculated.  "Where  in  the  world 
did—" 

"Dare  me  to  ride  in  the  store?"  demanded  Missy, 
flicking  the  air  with  her  crop  and  speaking  insouci- 
antly.  She  was  scarcely  aware  of  the  excited  sounds 
from  the  Post  Office,  for  as  yet  her  madness  was 
upon  her. 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  you  could  get  her  in! — -You'd 
better  not  try!" 

Missy  exulted — he  looked  as  if  actually  afraid  she 
might  attempt  it!  As  a  matter  of  fact  Arthur  was 
afraid;  he  was  afraid  Missy  Merriam  had  suddenly 
gone  out  of  her  head.  There  was  a  queer  look  in  her 
eyes — she  didn't  look  herself  at  all.  He  was  afraid 
she  might  really  do  that  crazy  stunt;  and  he  was 
afraid  the  boss  might  return  from  lunch  any  second, 
and  catch  her  doing  it  and  blame  him!  Yes,  Arthur 
Simpson  was  afraid;  and  Missy's  blood  sang  at  the 
spectacle  of  happy-go-lucky  Arthur  reduced  to  mani- 
fest anxiety. 

"Can't  get  her  in?"  she  retorted  derisively.  "Just 
watch  me!" 

And,  patting  Gypsy's  glossy  neck,  she  headed  her 
mount  directly  toward  the  sidewalk  and  clattered 
straight  into  Picker's  store.  ? 


Business  of  Blushing  247 

Arthur  had  barely  time  to  jump  out  of  the  way. 
"Holy  cats!"  he  again  invoked  fervently.  Then: 
"Head  her  out! — She's  slobbering  over  that  bucket 
of  candy!" 

True  enough;  Gypsy's  inquisitive  nose  had  led  her 
to  a  bewildering  profusion  of  the  sweets  she  adored; 
not  just  meagre  little  bits,  doled  out  to  her  stingily 
bite  by  bite.  And,  as  if  these  delectables  had  been 
set  out  for  a  special  and  royal  feast,  Gypsy  tasted 
this  corner  and  sampled  that,  in  gourmandish  aban- 
don. 

"For  Pete's  sake!"  implored  Arthur,  feverishly 
tugging  at  the  bridle.  "Get  her  out!  The  old  man's 
liable  to  get  back  any  minute! — He  won't  do  a  thing 
to  me!" 

Missy,  then,  catching  some  of  his  perturbation, 
slapped  with  the  reins,  stroked  Gypsy's  neck,  ex- 
horted her  with  endearments  and  then  with  threats. 
But  Gypsy  wouldn't  budge;  she  was  having,  unex- 
pectedly but  ecstatically,  the  time  of  her  career. 
Missy  climbed  down;  urged  and  cajoled,  joined  Ar- 
thur in  tugging  at  the  bridle.  Gypsy  only  planted 
her  dainty  forefeet  and  continued  her  repast  in  a 
manner  not  dainty  at  all.  Missy  began  to  feel  a  lit- 
tle desperate;  that  former  fine  frenzy,  that  divine 
madness,  that  magnificent  tingle  of  aplomb  and  dash, 
was  dwindling  away.  She  was  conscious  of  a  crowd 
collecting  in  the  doorway;  there  suddenly  seemed  to 
be  millions  of  people  in  the  store — rude,  pushing, 
chortling  phantoms  as  in  some  dreadful  nightmare. 
Hot,  prickling  waves  began  to  wash  over  her.  They 


248  Missy 

were  laughing  at  her.  Spurred  by  the  vulgar  guffaws 
she  gave  another  frantic  tug — 

Oh,  dear  heaven!  The  upper  air  suddenly  thick- 
ened with  sounds  of  buzzing  conflict — a  family  of 
mud-wasps,  roused  by  the  excitement,  were  circling 
round  and  round !  She  saw  them  in  terrified  fascina- 
tion— they  were  scattering! — zizzing  horribly,  threat- 
eningly as  they  swooped  this  way  and  that!  Heav- 
ens!— that  one  brushed  her  hand.  She  tried  to 
shrink  back — then  gave  an  anguished  squeal. 

What  was  that?  But  she  knew  what  it  was.  In 
petrified  panic  she  stood  stock-still,  rooted.  She  was 
afraid  to  move  lest  it  sting  her  more  viciously.  She 
could  feel  it  exploring  around — up  near  her  hip  now, 
now  crawling  downward,  now  for  a  second  lost  in 
some  voluminous  fold.  She  found  time  to  return 
thanks  that  her  breeches  had  been  cut  with  that 
smart  boufFance.  Then  she  cringed  as  she  felt  it 
again.  How  had  It  got  in  there?  The  realization 
that  she  must  have  torn  her  pepper-and-salts,  for  a 
breath  brought  embarrassment  acutely  to  the  fore; 
then,  as  that  tickling  promenade  over  her  anatomy 
was  resumed,  she  froze  under  paramount  fear. 

"For  Pete's  sake!"  shouted  Arthur.  "Don't  just 
stand  there! — can't  you  do  something?" 

But  Missy  could  do  nothing.  Removing  Gypsy 
was  no  longer  the  paramount  issue.  Ready  to  die  of 
shame  but  at  the  same  time  engripped  by  deadly 
terror,  she  stood,  legs  wide  apart,  for  her  life's  sake 
unable  to  move.  She  had  lost  count  of  time,  but 
was  agonizedly  aware  of  its  passage;  she  seemed  to 


Business  of  Blushing  249 

stand  there  in  that  anguished  stupor  for  centuries, 
In  reality  it  was  but  a  second  before  she  heard  Ar- 
thur's voice  again: 

"For  Heaven's  sake!"  he  muttered,  calamity's  ap- 
proach intensifying  his  abjurgations.  "There's  the 
old  man!" 

Apprehensively,  abasedly,  but  with  legs  still  sto- 
lidly apart,  Missy  looked  up.  Yes,  there  was  Mr. 
Picker,  elbowing  his  way  through  the  crowd.  Then 
an  icy  trickle  chilled  her  spine;  following  Mr.  Picket, 
carrying  his  noon  mail,  was  Rev.  MacGill. 

"Here!— What's  this?"  demanded  Mr.  Picker. 

Then  she  heard  Arthur,  that  craven-hearted,  trait- 
or-souled  being  she  had  once  called  "friend,"  tha^t 
she  had  even  desired  to  impress, — she  heard  him 
saying: 

"I  don't  know,  Mr.  Picker.  She  just  came  riding 
in—" 

Mr.  Picker  strode  to  the  centre  of  the  stage  and, 
by  a  simple  expedient  strangely  unthought-of  before 
— by  merely  pulling  away  the  bucket,  separated 
Gypsy  from  the  candy. 

Then  he  turned  to  Missy  and  eyed  her  disapprov- 
ingly. 

"I  think  you'd  better  be  taking  the  back  cut 
home.  If  I  was  your  mamma,  I'd  give  you  a  good 
spanking  and  put  you  to  bed." 

Spanking!  Oh,  shades  of  insouciance  and  swag- 
ger! And  with  Rev.  MacGill  standing  there  hear- 
ing— and  seeing!  Tears  rolled  down  over  her  blushes. 

"Here,  I'll  help  you  get  her  out,"  said  Rev.  Mac- 


250  Missy 

Gill,  kindly.  Missy  blessed  him  for  his  kindness, 
yet,  just  then,  she  felt  she'd  rather  have  been  stung 
to  death  than  to  have  had  him  there.  But  he  was 
there,  and  he  led  Gypsy,  quite  tractable  now  the 
candy  was  gone,  and  herself  looking  actually  embar- 
rassed, through  the  crowd  and  back  to  the  street. 

High  moments  have  a  way,  sometimes,  of  resolv- 
ing their  prime  and  unreducible  factors,  all  of  a  sud- 
den, to  disconcertingly  simple  terms.  Here  was 
Gypsy,  whose  stubbornness  had  begun  it  all,  sud- 
denly soft  as  silk;  and  there  was  the  wasp,  who  had 
brought  on  the  horrendous  climax,  suddenly  and 
mysteriously  vanished.  Of  course  Missy  was  glad 
the  wasp  was  gone — otherwise  she  might  have  stood 
there,  dying  of  shame,  till  she  did  die  of  shame — • 
yet  the  sudden  solution  of  her  dilemma  made  her 
feel  in  another  way  absurd. 

But  there  was  little  room  for  such  a  paltry  emo- 
tion as  absurdity.  Rev.  MacGill  volunteered  to  de- 
liver. Gypsy  to  her  stall — oh,  he  was  wonderful, 
though  she  almost  wished  he'd  have  to  leave  town 
unexpectedly;  she  didn't  see  how  she'd  ever  face  him 
again — but  she  knew  there  was  a  reckoning  waiting 
at  home. 

It  was  a  painful  and  unforgettable  scene.  Mother 
had  heard  already;  father  had  telephoned  from  the 
office.  Missy  supposed  all  Cherryvale  was  telephon- 
ing but  she  deferred  thoughts  of  her  wider  disgrace; 
at  present  mother  was  enough.  Mother  was  fear- 
fully angry — Missy  knew  she  would  never  under- 
stand. She  said  harsher  things  than  she'd  ever  said 


Business  of  Blushing 

before.  Making  such  a  spectacle  of  herself! — her 
own  daughter,  whom  she'd  tried  to  train  to  be  a 
lady!  This  feature  of  the  situation  seemed  to  stir 
mother  almost  more  violently  than  the  flagrant  dis- 
obedience. 

"It's  all  that  O'Neill  girl,"  said  Aunt  Nettie. 
"Ever  since  she  came  here  to  live,  Missy's  been  up- 
to  just  one  craziness  after  another." 

Mother  looked  out  the  window  and  sighed.  Missy- 
was  suddenly  conscious  that  she  loved  her  mother 
very  much;  despite  the  fact  that  mother  had  just 
said  harsh  things,  that  she  was  going  to  punish  her,, 
that  she  never  understood.  A  longing  welled  up  in- 
ner to  fling  her  arms  round  mother's  neck  and  assure- 
her  that  she  never  meant  to  be  a  spectacle,  that  she: 
had  only — 

But  what  was  the  use  of  trying  to  explain?  Moth- 
er wouldn't  understand  and  she  couldn't  explain  it 
in  words,  anyway — not  even  to  herself.  So  she  stood 
first  on  one  foot  and  then  on  the  other,  and  felt  per- 
fectly inadequate  and  miserable.  i 

At  last,  wanting  frightfully  to  say  something  that 
would  ameliorate  her  conduct  somewhat  in  mother's 
eyes,  she  said: 

"I  guess  it  was  an  awful  thing  to  do,  mother. 
And  I'm  awfully  sorry.  But  it  wouldn't  have  come 
out  quite  so  bad — I  could  have  managed  Gypsy  bet- 
ter, I  think — if  it  hadn't  been  for  that  old  wasp." 

"Wasp?"  questioned  mother. 

"Yes,  there  was  a  lot  of  mud-wasps  got  to  flying 
around  and  one  some  way  got  inside  of  my — my/ 


252  Missy 

breeches.  And  you  know  how  scared  to  death  I  am 
of  wasps.  I  know  I  could  have  managed  Gypsy,  but 
when  I  felt  that  wasp  crawling  around—  She  broke 
off;  tried  again.  "Don't  think  I  couldn't  manage 
her — but  when  I  felt  that — ' 

"Well,  if  the  wasp  was  all  that  was  the  matter,'* 
queried  mother,  "why  didn't  you  go  after  it?" 
Missy  didn't  reply. 

"Why  did  you  just  stand  there  and  let  it  keep 
stinging  you  ? " 

Missy  opened  her  lips  but  quickly  closed  them 
again.  She  realized  there  was  something  inconsist- 
ent in  her  explanation.  Mother  had  accused  her  of 
immodesty:  riding  astride  and  wearing  those  scan- 
dalous pepper-and-salts  and  showing  her  legs.  If 
mother  was  right,  if  she  was  brazen,  somehow  it 
didn't  tie  up  to  claim  confusion  because  her — 
Oh,  legs! 

She  didn't  try  to  explain.    With  hanging  head  she 
went  meekly  to  her  room.     Mother  had  ruled  she 
must  stay  there,  in  disgrace,  till  father  came  home 
and  a  proper  punishment  was  decided  upon. 
It  was  not  a  short  or  glad  afternoon. 
At  supper  father  came  up  to  see  her.    He  was  dis- 
approving, of  course,  though  she  felt  that  his  heart 
wasn't   entirely   unsympathetic.      Even   though   he 
told  her  Mr.  Picker  had  made  him  pay  for  the  buck- 
et of  candy.     Missy  knew  it  must  have  gone  hard 
with  him  to  be  put  in  the  wrong  by  Mr.  Picker. 
"Oh,  father,  I'm  sorry!— I  really  am!" 
Father  patted  her  hand.    He  was  an  angel. 


Business  of  Blushing  253 

"Did  you  bring  it  home?"  brightening  at  a 
thought. 

"Bring  what  home?"  asked  father. 

"Why,  the  candy." 

"Of  course  not." 

"I  don't  see  why,  if  you  had  to  pay  for  it.  The 
bottom  part  wasn't  hurt  at  all." 

Father  laughed  then,  actually  laughed.  She  was 
glad  to  see  the  serious  look  removed  from  his  face; 
but  she  still  begrudged  all  that  candy. 

Nor  was  that  the  end  of  the  part  played  by  the 
candy.  That  night,  as  she  was  kneeling  in  her  night- 
gown by  the  window,  gazing  out  at  the  white  moon- 
light and  trying  to  summon  the  lovely  thoughts  the 
night's  magic  used  to  bring,  the  door  opened  softly 
and  mother  came  tiptoeing  in. 

"You  ought  to  be  in  bed,  dear,"  she  said.  No, 
Missy  reflected,  she  could  never,  never  be  really 
cross  with  mother.  She  climbed  into  bed  and,  with 
a  certain  degree  of  comfort,  watched  mother  smooth 
up  the  sheet  and  fold  the  counterpane  carefully  over 
the  foot-rail. 

"Mrs.  O'Neill  just  phoned,"  mother  said.  "Tess 
is  very  sick.  It  seems  she  and  Arthur  got  hold  of 
that  bucket  of  candy." 

"Oh,"  said  Missy. 

That  was  all  she  said,  all  she  felt  capable  of  say- 
ing. The  twisted  thoughts,  emotions  and  revulsions 
which  surge  in  us  as  we  watch  the  inexplicable  work- 
ings of  Fate  are  often  difficult  of  expression.  But, 
after  mother  had  kissed  her  good  night  and  gone,  she 


254  Missy 

lay  pondering  for  a  long  time.  Life  is  curiously  un- 
fair. That  Tess  and  Arthur  should  have  got  the 
candy  for  which  she  suffered,  that  the  very  hours 
she'd  been  shut  up  with  shame  and  disgrace  they 
were  gorging  themselves,  seemed  her  climactic  crown 
of  sorrow. 

Yes,  life  was  queer.   .   .   . 

Almost  not  worth  while  to  try  to  be  athletic — she 
'didn't  really  like  being  athletic,  anyway  .  .  .  she 
hoped  they'd  had  the  ordinary  human  decency  to 
give  Gypsy  just  a  little  bit  .  .  .  Gypsy  was  a  dar- 
ling .  .  .  that  wavy  tail  and  those  bright  soft  eyes 
and  the  white  star  .  .  .  but  you  don't  have  to  be 
really  athletic  to  ride  a  pony — you  don't  have  to 
wear  breeches  and  do  things  like  that  .  .  .  Arthur 
wasn't  so  much,  anyway — he  had  freckles  and  red 
hair  and  there  was  nothing  romantic  about  him. 
..  .  .  Sir  Galahad  would  never  have  been  so  scared  of 
Mr.  Picker — he  wouldn't  have  shoved  the  blame  off 
onto  a  maiden  in  distress.  .  .  .  No,  and  she  didn't 
think  the  King  of  Spain  would,  either  .  .  '.  Or  Rev. 
MacGill.  .  .  .  There  were  lots  of  things  just  as 
good  as  being  athletic  .  .  .  there  were  .  .  .  lots  of 
things  .  .  . 

A  moonbeam  crept  up  the  white  sheet,  to  kiss  the 
eyelids  closed  in  sleep. 


VIII 

A  Happy  Downfall 

Ah,  pensive  scholar,  what  is  fame? — 
A  fitful  tongue  of  fickle  flame. 
And  what  is  prominence  to  me, 
When  a  brown  bird  sings  in  the  apple-tree? 
Ah,  mortal  downfalls  lose  their  sting 
When  World  and  Heart  hear  the  call  of  Spring! 
You  ask  me  why  mere  friendship  so 
Outweighs  all  else  that  but  comes  to  go?  .  .  . 
A  truce,  a  truce  to  questioning: 
"We  two  are  friends,"  tells  everything. 
I  think  it  vile  to  pigeon-hole 
The  pros  and  cons  of  a  kindred  soul. 
(From  Melissa's  Improvement  on  Certain  Older  Poets.) 

f  I  AHE  year  Melissa  was  a  high  school  Junior  was 
-*•  fated  to  be  an  unforgettable  epoch.  In  the 
space  of  a  few  short  months,  all  mysteriously  inter- 
woven with  their  causes  and  effects,  their  trials 
turning  to  glory,  their  disappointments  and  surcease 
inexplicable,  came  revelations,  swift  and  shifting,  or 
what  is  really  worth  while  in  life.  Oh,  Life!  And 
oh,  when  one  is  sixteen  years  old!  That  is  an  age, 
as  many  of  us  can  remember,  one  begins  really  to 
know  Life — a  complex  and  absorbing  epoch. 

The  first  of  these  new  vistas  to  unspread  itself 
before  Missy's  eyes  was  nothing  less  dazzling  than 
Travel. 

255 


256  Missy 

She  had  never  been  farther  away  from  home  than 
Macon  City,  the  local  metropolis,  or  Pleasanton, 
where  Uncle  Charlie  and  Aunt  Isabel  lived  and  which 
wasn't  even  as  big  as  Cherry  vale;  and  neither  place 
was  a  two-hours'  train  ride  away.  The  most  pic- 
turesque scenery  she  knew  was  at  Rocky  Ford;  it 
was  far  from  the  place  where  the  melons  grow,  but 
water,  a  ford  and  rocks  were  there,  and  it  had  always 
shone  in  that  prairie  land  and  in  Missy's  eyes  as  a 
haunt  of  nymphs,  water-babies,  the  Great  Spirit, 
and  Nature's  poetics  generally — the  Great  Spirit 
was  naturally  associated  with  its  inevitable  legendary 
Indian  love  story.  But  when  Aunt  Isabel  carelessly 
suggested  that  Missy,  next  summer,  go  to  Colorado 
with  her,  how  the  local  metropolis  dwindled;  how 
little  and  simple,  though  pretty,  of  course,  appeared 
Rocky  Ford. 

Colorado  quivered  before  her  in  images  supernal. 
Colorado!  Enchantment  in  the  very  name!  And 
mountains,  and  eternal  snow  upon  the  peaks,  and 
spraying  waterfalls,  and  bright-painted  gardens  of 
the  gods — oh,  ecstasy! 

And  going  with  Aunt  Isabel!  Aunt  Isabel  was 
young,  beautiful,  and  delightful.  Aunt  Isabel  went 
to  Colorado  every  summer! 

But  a  whole  year!  That  is,  in  truth,  a  long  time 
and  can  bring  forth  much  that  is  unforeseen,  amazing, 
revolutionizing.  Especially  when  one  is  sixteen  and 
beginning  really  to  know  life. 

Missy  had  always  found  life  in  Cherryvale  absorb- 
ing. The  past  had  been  predominantly  tinged  with 


A  Happy  Downfall  257 

the  rainbow  hues  of  dreams;  with  the  fine,  vague, 
beautiful  thoughts  that  "reading"  brings,  and  with 
such  delicious  plays  of  fancy  as  lend  witchery  to  a 
high  white  moon,  an  arched  blue  sky,  or  rolling 
prairies — even  to  the  tranquil  town  and  the  happen- 
ings of  every  day.  Nothing  could  put  magic  into 
the  humdrum  life  of  school,  and  here  she  must 
struggle  through  another  whole  year  of  it  before  she 
might  reach  Colorado.  That  was  a  cloud,  indeed, 
for  one  who  wasn't  "smart"  like  Beulah  Crosswhite. 
Mathematics  Missy  found  an  inexplicable,  unalloyed 
torture;  history  for  all  its  pleasingly  suggestive 
glimpses  of  a  spacious  past,  laid  heavy  taxes  on  one 
not  good  at  remembering  dates. 

But  Missy  was  about  to  learn  to  take  a  more 
modern  view  of  high  school  possibilities.  Shortly 
before  school  opened  Cousin  Pete  came  to  see  his 
grandparents  in  Cherryvale.  Perhaps  Pete's  filial 
devotion  was  due  to  the  fact  that  Polly  Currier  re- 
sided in  Cherryvale;  Polly  was  attending  the  State 
University  where  Pete  was  a  "Post-Grad."  Missy 
listened  to  Cousin  Pete's  talk  of  college  life  with 
respect,  admiration,  and  some  unconscious  envy. 
There  was  one  word  that  rose,  like  cream  on  milk,  or 
oil  on  water,  or  fat  on  soup,  inevitably  to  the  surface 
of  his  conversation. 

"Does  Polly  Currier  like  college?"  once  inquired 
Missy,  moved  by  politeness  to  broach  what  Pete 
must  find  an  agreeable  subject. 

"Naturally,"  replied  Pete,  with  the  languor  of  an 
admittedly  superior  being.  "She's  prominent." 


258  Missy 

The  word,  "prominent,"  as  uttered  by  him  had 
more  than  impressiveness  and  finality.  It  was 
magnificent.  It  was  as  though  one  might  remark 
languidly :  "  She  ?  Oh,  she's  the  Queen  of  Sheba " — 
or,  "Oh,  she's  Mary  Pickford." 

Missy  pondered  a  second,  then  asked : 

"Prominent?  How  is  a — what  makes  a  person 
prominent?" 

Pete  elucidated  in  the  large,  patronizing  manner  of 
.•a  kindly-disposed  elder. 

"Oh,  being  pretty — if  you're  a  girl — and  a  good 
isport,  and  active  in  some  line.     A  leader." 
,,  Missy   didn't   yet   exactly   see.     She   decided   to 
make  the  problem  specific. 

"What  makes  Polly  prominent?" 

"Because  she's  the  prettiest  girl  on  the  hill,"  Pete 
replied  indulgently.  "And  some  dancer.  And  crack 
basket-ball  forward — Glee  Club — Dramatic  Club. 
Polly's  got  it  over  'em  forty  ways  running." 

So  ended  the  first  lesson.  The  second  occurred  at 
the  chance  mention  of  one  Charlie  White,  a  Cherry- 
vale  youth  likewise  a  student  at  the  University. 

"Oh,  he's  not  very  prominent,"  commented  Pete, 
and  his  tone  damned  poor  Charlie  for  all  eternity. 

"Why  isn't  he?"  asked  Missy  interestedly. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know — he's  just  a  dub." 

"A  dub?" 

"Yep,  a  dub."  Pete  had  just  made  a  "date" 
with  Polly,  so  he  beamed  on  her  benignantly  as  he 
.explained  further:  "A  gun — a  dig — a  greasy  grind." 

"But  isn't  a  smart  person  ever  prominent?" 


A  Happy  Downfall  259 

"Oh,  sometimes.     It  all  depends." 

"Is  Polly  Currier  a  grind?" 

"I  should  hope  not!"  as  if  defending  the  lady 
from  an  insulting  charge. 

Missy  looked  puzzled;  then  asked: 

"Does  she  ever  pass?" 

"Oh,  now  and  then.  Sometimes  she  flunks. 
Polly  should  worry!" 

Here  was  strange  news.  One  could  be  smart, 
devote  oneself  to  study — be  a  "greasy  grind" — and 
yet  fail  of  prominence;  and  one  could  fail  to  pass — 
"flunk" — and  yet  climb  to  the  pinnacle  of  promi- 
nence. Evidently  smartness  and  studiousness  had 
nothing  to  do  with  it,  and  Missy  felt  a  pleasurable 
thrill.  Formerly  she  had  envied  Beulah  Crosswhite, 
who  wore  glasses  and  was  preternaturally  wise. 
But  maybe  Beulah  Crosswhite  was  not  so  much. 
Manifestly  it  was  more  important  to  be  prominent 
than  smart. 

Oh,  if  she  herself  could  be  prominent! 

To  be  sure,  she  wasn't  pretty  like  Polly  Currier,  or 
even  like  her  own  contemporary,  Kitty  Allen — 
though  she  had  reason  to  believe  that  Raymond 
Bonner  had  said  something  to  one  of  the  other  boys 
that  sounded  as  if  her  eyes  were  a  little  nice.  "Big 
Eyes"  he  had  called  her,  as  if  that  were  a  joke;  but 
maybe  it  meant  something  pleasant.  But  the  High 
School  did  not  have  a  Glee  Club  or  Dramatic  Society 
offering  one  the  chance  to  display  leadership  gifts. 
There  was  a  basket-ball  team,  but  Missy  didn't 
"take  to"  athletics. 


260  Missy 

Missy  brooded  through  long,  secret  hours. 

The  first  week  of  September  school  opened,  classes 
enrolled,  and  the  business  of  learning  again  got  under 
way.  By  the  second  week  the  various  offshoots  of 
educational  life  began  to  sprout,  and  notices  were 
posted  of  the  annual  elections  of  the  two  "literary 
societies,"  lolanthe  and  Mount  Parnassus.  The 
"programmes"  of  these  bodies  were  held  in  the 
auditorium  every  other  Friday,  and  each  pupil  was 
due  for  at  least  one  performance  a  semester.  Missy, 
who  was  an  lolanthian,  generally  chose  to  render  a 
piano  solo  or  an  original  essay.  But  everybody  in 
school  did  that  much — they  had  to — and  only  a  few 
rose  to  the  estate  of  being  "officers." 

The  lolanthians  had  two  tickets  up  for  election: 
the  scholastic,  headed  by  Beulah  Crosswhite  for 
president,  and  an  opposition  framed  by  some  boys 
who  complained  that  the  honours  always  went  to 
girls  and  that  it  was  time  men's  rights  were  recog- 
nized. The  latter  faction  put  up  Raymond  Bonner 
as  their  candidate.  Raymond  was  as  handsome  and 
gay  as  Beulah  Crosswhite  was  learned. 

It  was  a  notable  fight.  When  the  day  of  election 
arrived,  the  Chemistry  room  in  which  the  lolan- 
thians were  gathered  was  electric  with  restrained 
excitement.  On  the  first  ballot  Raymond  and 
Beulah  stood  even.  There  was  a  second  ballot — a 
third — a  fourth.  And  still  the  deadlock,  the  at- 
mosphere of  tensity  growing  more  vibrant  every 
second.  Finally  a  group  of  boys  put  their  heads 
together.  Then  Raymond  Bonner  arose. 


A  Happy  Downfall  261 

"In  view  of  the  deadlock  which  it  seems  impossible 
to  break,"  be  began,  in  the  rather  stilted  manner 
which  befits  such  assemblages,  "I  propose  that  we 
put  up  a  substitute  candidate.  I  propose  the  name 
of  Miss  Melissa  Merriam." 

Oh,  dear  heaven!  For  a  second  Missy  was  afraid 
she  was  going  to  cry — she  didn't  know  why.  But 
she  caught  Raymond's  eye  on  her,  smiling  encourage- 
ment, and  she  mistily  glowed  back  at  him.  And  on 
the  very  first  vote  she  was  elected. 

Yes.  Miss  Melissa  Merriam  was  president  of 
lolanthe.  She  was  prominent. 

And  Raymond?  Of  course  Raymond  had  been 
prominent  before,  though  she  had  never  noticed  it, 
and  now  he  had  helped  her  up  to  this  noble  eleva- 
tion! He  must  think  she  would  adorn  it.  Adorn! — 
it  was  a  lovely  word  that  Missy  had  just  captured. 

Though  she  had  achieved  her  eminence  by  a  fluke, 
Missy  took  fortune  at  the  flood  like  one  born  for 
success.  She  mazed  the  whole  school  world  by  a 
meteoric  display  of  unsuspected  capacities.  Her- 
self she  amazed  most  of  all;  she  felt  as  if  she  were 
making  the  acquaintance  of  a  stranger,  an  increas- 
ingly fascinating  kind  of  stranger.  How  wonderful 
to  find  herself  presiding  over  a  "meeting"  from  the 
teacher's  desk  in  the  Latin  room,  or  over  a  "pro- 
gramme" in  the  auditorium,  with  calm  and 
superior  dignity! 

Missy,  aflame  with  a  new  fire,  was  not  content 
with  the  old  hackneyed  variety  of  "programme." 
It  was  she  who  conceived  the  idea  of  giving  the  first 


262  .      Missy 

minstrel  show  ever  presented  upon  the  auditorium 
boards.  It  is  a  tribute  to  Missy's  persuasiveness 
when  at  white  heat  that  the  faculty  permitted  the 
show  to  go  beyond  its  first  rehearsal.  The  rehearsals 
Missy  personally  conducted,  with  Raymond  aiding 
as  her  first  lieutenant — and  he  would  not  have 
played  second  fiddle  like  that  to  another  girl  in  the 
class — he  said  so.  She  herself  chose  the  cast,  con- 
trived the  "scenery";  and  she  and  Raymond  together 
wrote  the  dialogue  and  lyrics.  It  was  wonderful 
how  they  could  do  things  together!  Missy  felt  she 
never  could  get  into  such  a  glow  and  find  such  lovely 
rhymes  popping  right  up  in  her  mind  if  she  were 
working  alone.  And  Raymond  said  the  same.  It 
was  very  strange.  It  was  as  if  a  mystic  bond  fired 
them  both  with  new  talents — Missy  looked  on 
mixed  metaphors  as  objectionable  only  to  Professor 
Sutton. 

Her  reputation — and  Raymond's — soared,  soared. 
Her  literary  talent  placed  her  on  a  much  higher 
plane  than  if  she  were  merely  "smart" — made  her 
in  the  most  perfect  sense  "prominent." 

After  the  minstrel  triumph  it  was  no  surprise 
when,  at  class  elections,  Melissa  Merriam  became 
president  of  the  Juniors.  A  few  months  before 
Missy  would  have  been  overwhelmed  at  the  turn  of 
things,  but  now  she  casually  mounted  her  new 
height,  with  assurance  supreme. 

It  was  as  though  always  had  the  name  of  Melissa 
Merriam  been  a  force.  Raymond  said  no  one  else 
had  a  look-in. 


A  Happy  Downfall  263 

At  the  end  of  the  term  prominence  brought  its 
reward:  Missy  failed  in  Geometry  and  was  condi- 
tioned in  Latin.  Father  looked  grave  over  her  report 
card. 

"This  is  pretty  bad,  isn't  it?"  he  asked. 

Missy  fidgeted.  It  gave  her  a  guilty  feeling  to 
bring  that  expression  to  her  indulgent  father's  face. 

"I'm  sorry,  father.  I  know  I'm  not  smart,  but — " 
She  hesitated. 

Father  took  off  his  glasses  and  thoughtfully 
regarded  her. 

"I  wasn't  complaining  of  your  not  being  'smart* — 
'smart'  people  are  often  pests.  The  trouble's  that 
this  is  worse  than  it's  ever  been.  And  to-day  I  got  a 
letter  from  Professor  Sutton.  He  says  you  evince 
no  interest  whatever  in  your  work." 

Missy  felt  a  little  indignant  flare  within  her. 

"He  knows  what  responsibilities  I  have!" 

"Responsibilities?"  repeated  father. 

Here  mother,  who  had  been  sitting  quietly  by, 
also  with  a  disapproving  expression,  entered  the 
discussion: 

"I  knew  all  that  lolanthe  and  class  flummery 
would  get  her  into  trouble." 

Flummery! 

Missy's  voice  quavered.  "That's  a  very  import- 
ant part  of  school  life,  mother!  Class  spirit  and  all — • 
you  don't  understand!" 

"I  suppose  parents  are  seldom  able  to  keep  up 
with  the  understanding  of  their  children,"  replied 
mother,  with  unfamiliar  sarcasm.  "However,  right 


264  Missy 

here's  where  I  presume  to  set  my  foot  down.  If 
you  fail  again,  in  the  spring  examinations,  you'll 
have  to  study  and  make  it  up  this  summer.  You 
can't  go  with  Aunt  Isabel." 

Lose  the  Colorado  trip!  The  wonderful  trip  she 
had  already  lived  through,  in  vivid  prospect,  a 
hundred  times!  Oh,  mother  couldn't  be  so  cruel! 
But  Missy's  face  dropped  alarmingly. 

"Now,  mamma,"  began  father,  "I  wouldn't — " 

"I  mean  every  word  of  it,"  reaffirmed  mother 
with  the  voice  of  doom.  "No  grades,  no  holiday. 
Missy's  got  to  learn  balance  and  moderation.  She 
lets  any  wild  enthusiasm  carry  her  off  her  feet. 
She's  got  to  learn,  before  it's  too  late,  to  think  and 
control  herself." 

There  was  a  moment's  heavy  pause,  then  mother 
went  on,  significantly: 

"And  I  don't  know  that  you  ought  to  buy  that 
car  this  spring,  papa." 

The  parents  exchanged  a  brief  glance,  and  Missy's 
heart  dropped  even  lower.  For  months  she  had 
been  teasing  father  to  buy  a  car,  as  so  many  of  the 
girls'  fathers  were  doing.  He  had  said,  "Wait  till 
spring,"  and  how — the  universe  was  draped  in 
gloom. 

However,  there  was  a  certain  sombre  satisfaction 
in  reflecting  that  her  traits  of  frailty  should  call 
forth  such  enthrallingly  sinister  comments.  "Lets 
any  wild  enthusiasm  carry  her  off  her  feet" — 
"before,  it's  too  late" — "must  learn  to  control 
herself—" 


A  Happy  Downfall  265 

Human  nature  is  an  interesting  study,  and  espe- 
cially one's  own  nature  when  one  stands  off  and  regards 
it  as  a  problem  alien,  mysterious  and  complicated. 
Missy  stared  at  the  endangered  recesses  of  her  soul — 
and  wondered  what  Raymond  thought  about  these 
perils — for  any  girl.  He  liked  her  of  course,  but 
did  he  think  she  was  too  enthusiastic? 

Yet  such  speculations  did  not,  at  the  time,  tie  up 
with  views  about  the  Colorado  trip.  That  was  still 
the  guiding  star  of  all  her  hopes.  She  must  study 
harder  during  the  spring  term  and  stave  off  the 
threatened  and  unspeakable  calamity.  It  was  a 
hard  resolution  to  put  through,  especially  when  she 
conceived  a  marvellous  idea — a  "farce"  like  one 
Polly  Currier  told  her  about  when  she  was  home  for 
her  Easter  vacation.  Missy  wrestled  with  tempta- 
tion like  some  Biblical  martyr  of  old,  but  the  thought 
of  Colorado  kept  her  strong.  And  she  couldn't  help 
feeling  a  little  noble  when,  mentioning  to  mother 
the  discarded  inspiration — without  allusion  to  Col- 
orado— she  was  praised  for  her  adherence  to  duty. 

The  sense  of  nobility  aided  her  against  various 
tantalizing  chances  to  prove  anew  her  gifts  of  leader- 
ship, through  latter  March,  through  April,  through 
early  May — lengthening,  balmy,  burgeoning  days 
when  Spring  brings  all  her  brightly  languid  witchery 
in  assault  upon  drab  endeavour. 

The  weather  must  share  the  blame  for  what  befell 
that  fateful  Friday  of  the  second  week  in  May. 
Blame?  Of  course  there  was  plenty  of  blame  from 
adults  that  must  be  laid  somewhere;  but  as  for 


266  Missy 

Missy,  a  floating  kind  of  ecstasy  was  what  that  day 
woke  in  her  first,  and  after  the  worst  had  happened— 
But  let  us  see  what  did  come  to  pass. 

It  was  a  day  made  for  poets  to  sing  about.  A 
day  for  the  young  man  to  forget  the  waiting  ledger 
on  his  desk  and  gaze  out  the  window  at  skies  so  blue 
and  deep  as  to  invite  the  building  of  castles;  for  even 
his  father  to  see  visions  of  golf-course  or  fishing-boat 
flickering  in  the  translucent  air;  for  old  JefF  to  get  out 
his  lawn-mower  and  lazily  add  a  metallic  song  to  the 
hum  of  the  universe.  And  for  him  or  her  who  must 
sit  at  schoolroom  desk,  it  was  a  day  to  follow  the 
processes  of  blackboard  or  printed  page  with  the 
eyes  but  not  the  mind,  while  the  encaged  spirit  beat 
past  the  bars  of  dull  routine  to  wing  away  in  the  blue. 

Missy,  sitting  near  an  open  window  of  the  "study 
room"  during  the  "second  period,"  let  dreamy 
eyes  wander  from  the  fatiguing  Q.  E.  D's  of  the 
afternoon's  Geometry  lesson;  the  ugly  tan  walls, 
the  sober  array  of  national  patriots  hanging  above 
the  encircling  blackboard,  the  sea  of  heads  restlessly 
swaying  over  receding  rows  of  desks,  all  faded  hazily 
away.  Her  soul  flitted  out  through  the  window, 
and  suffused  itself  in  the  bit  of  bright,  bright  blue 
showing  beyond  the  stand-pipe,  in  the  soft,  soft  air 
that  stole  in  to  kiss  her  cheek,  in  the  elusive  fragrance 
of  young,  green,  growing  things,  in  the  drowsy, 
drowsy  sound  of  Mrs.  Clifton's  chickens  across  the 
way.  .  .  . 

Precious  minutes  were  speeding  by;  she  would  not 
have  her  Geometry  lesson.  But  Missy  didn't  bring 


A  Happy  Downfall  267 

herself  back  to  think  of  that;  would  not  have  cared, 
anyway.     She  let  her  soul  stretch  out,  out,  out. 

Such  is  the  sweet,  subtle,  compelling  madness  a 
day  of  Spring  can  bring  one. 

Missy  had  often  felt  the  ecstasy  of  being  swept  out 
on  the  yearning  demand  for  a  new  experience. 
Generally  because  of  something  suggestive  in  "read- 
ing" or  in  heavenly  colour  combinations  or  in  sad 
music  at  twilight;  but,  now,  for  no  definable  reason 
at  all,  she  felt  her  soul  welling  up  and  up  in  vague 
but  poignant  craving.  She  asked  permission  to  get 
a  drink  of  water.  But  instead  of  quenching  her 
thirst,  she  wandered  to  the  entry  of  the  room  occu- 
pied by  Mathematics  III  A — Missy's  own  class, 
from  which  she  was  now  sequestered  by  the  cruel  bar 
termed  "failure-to-pass."  Something  was  afoot  in 
there;  Missy  put  her  ear  to  the  keyhole;  then  she 
boldly  opened  the  door. 

A  tempest  of  paper-wads,  badinage  and  giggles 
greeted  her.  The  teacher's  desk  was  vacant.  Miss 
Smith  was  at  home  sick,  and  the  principal  had  put 
Mathematics  III  A  on  their  honour.  For  a  time 
Missy  joined  in  their  honourable  pursuit  of  giggles  and 
badinage.  But  Raymond  had  welcomed  her  as  if 
the  fun  must  mount  to  something  yet  higher  when 
she  came;  she  felt  a  "secret,  deep,  interior  urge"  to 
show  what  she  could  do.  The  seductive  May  air 
stole  into  her  blood,  a  stealthy,  intoxicating  elixir, 
and  finally  the  Inspiration  came,  with  such  tumultu- 
ous swiftness  that  she  could  never  have  told  whence 
or  how.  Passed  on  to  her  fellows,  it  was  caught  up 


268  Missy 

with  an  ardour  equally  mad  and  unreckoning.  One 
minute  the  unpastored  flock  of  Mathematics  III  A 
were  leaning  out  the  windows,  sniffing  in  the  lilac 
scents  wafted  over  from  Mrs.  Clifton's  yard;  the 
next  they  were  scurrying,  tip-toe,  flushed,  laughing, 
jostling,  breathless,  out  through  the  cloak-room, 
down  the  stairs,  through  the  side-door,  across  the 
stretch  of  school-yard,  toward  a  haven  beyond  Mrs. 
Clifton's  lilac  hedge. 

Where  were  they  going?  They  did  not  know. 
Why  had  they  started?  They  did  not  know.  What 
the  next  step?  They  did  not  know.  No  thought 
nor  reason  in  that  onward  rush;  only  one  vast,  en- 
veloping, incoherent,  tumultuous  impulse — away! 
away!  Away  from  dark  walls  into  the  open;  away 
from  the  old  into  the  new;  away  from  the  usual  into 
the  you-don't-know-what;  away  from  "you  must 
not"  into  "you  may."  The  wild,  free,  bright,  heed- 
less urge  of  Spring ! 

Behind  their  fragrant  rampart  they  paused,  for  a 
second,  to  spin  about  in  a  kind  of  mental  and  spirit- 
ual whirlpool.  Some  began  breaking  off  floral  sprays 
to  decorate  hat-band  or  shirt-waist.  But  Missy, 
feeling  her  responsibility  as  a  leader,  glanced  back, 
through  leafy  crevices,  at  those  prison-windows  open 
and  ominously  near. 

"We  mustn't  stay  here!"  she  admonished.  "We'll 
get  caught!" 

As  if  an  embodiment  of  warning,  just  then  Mrs. 
Clifton  emerged  out  on  her  front  porch;  she  looked 
as  if  she  might  be  going  to  shout  at  them.  But  Ray- 


A  Happy  Downfall  269 

mond  waited  to  break  off  a  lilac  cluster  for  Missy. 
He  was  so  cool  about  it;  it  just  showed  how  much  he 
was  like  the  Black  Prince — though  of  course  no  one 
would  "understand"  if  you  said  such  a  thing. 

The  fragrantly  beplumed  company  sped  across 
the  green  Clifton  yard,  ruthlessly  over  the  Clifton 
vegetable  garden,  to  the  comparative  retreat  of  Sil- 
ver Street,  beyond.  But  they  were  not  yet  safe — 
away!  away!  Missy  urged  them  westward,  for  no 
defined  reason  save  that  this  direction  might  increase 
their  distance  from  the  danger  zone  of  the  High 
School. 

Still  without  notion  of  whither  bound,  the  run- 
aways, moist  and  dishevelled,  found  themselves  down 
by  the  railroad  tracks.  There,  in  front  of  the  Pacific 
depot,  stood  the  10:43  "accommodation"  for  Osawa- 
tomie  and  other  points  south.  Another  idea  out  of 
the  blue! 

"Let's  go  to  Osawatomie!"  cried  Missy. 

The  accommodation  was  puffing  laboriously  into 
action  as  the  last  Junior  clambered  pantingly  on. 
But  they'd  all  got  on!  They  were  on  their  way! 

But  not  on  their  way  to  Osawatomie. 

For  before  they  had  all  found  satisfactory  places 
on  the  red  plush  seats,  where  it  was  hard  to  sit  still 
with  that  bright  balminess  streaming  in  through  the 
open  windows — hard  to  sit  still,  or  to  think,  or  to  do 
anything  but  flutter  up  and  down  and  laugh  and 
chatter  about  nothing  at  all — the  conductor  appeared. 

"Tickets,  please!" 

A  trite  and  commonplace  phrase,  but  potent  to 


270  Missy 

plunge  errant,  winging  fancies  down  to  earth.  The 
chattering  ceased  short.  No  one  had  thought  of 
tickets,  nor  even  of  money.  The  girls  of  the  party 
looked  appalled — in  Cherryvale  the  girls  never  dream- 
ed of  carrying  money  to  school;  then  furtively  they 
glanced  at  the  boys.  Just  as  furtively  the  boys  were 
exploring  into  pockets,  but  though  they  brought 
forth  a  plentiful  salvage  of  the  anomalous  treasure 
usually  to  be  found  in  school-boys'  pockets,  the  dis- 
play of  "change"  was  pathetic.  Raymond  had  a 
quarter,  and  that  was  more  than  anyone  else  turned 
out. 

The  conductor  impatiently  repeated: 

"Tickets,  please!" 

Then  Missy,  feeling  that  financial  responsibility 
must  be  recognized  in  a  class  president,  began  to  put 
her  case  with  a  formal  dignity  that  impressed  every 
one  but  the  conductor. 

"We're  the  Junior  class  of  the  Cherryvale  High 
School — we  wish  to  go  to  Osawatomie.  Couldn't 
we — maybe —  ? " 

Formal  dignity  broke  down,  her  voice  stuck  in  her 
throat,  but  her  eyes  ought  to  have  been  enough. 
They  were  big  and  shining  eyes,  and  when  she  made 
them  appealing  they  had  been  known  to  work  won- 
ders with  father  and  mother  and  other  grown-ups* 
even  with  the  austere  Professor  Sutton.  But  this 
burly  figure  in  the  baggy  blue  uniform  had  a  face 
more  like  a  wooden  Indian  than  a  human  grown-up 
— and  an  old,  dyspeptic  wooden  Indian  at  that. 
Missy's  eyes  were  to  avail  her  nothing  that  hour. 


A  Happy  Downfall  271 

"Off  you  get  at  the  watering-tank,"  he  ordained. 
"The  whole  pack  of  you." 

And  at  the  watering-tank  off  they  got. 

And  then,  as  often  follows  a  mood  of  high  adven- 
ture, there  fell  upon  the  festive  group  a  moment  of 
pause,  of  unnatural  quiet,  of  "let  down." 

"Well,  what're  we  going  to  do  now?"  queried 
somebody. 

"We'll  do  whatever  Missy  says,"  said  Raymond, 
just  as  if  he  were  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  speaking  of  the 
Virgin  Queen.  It  was  a  wonder  someone  didn't  start 
teasing  him  about  her;  but  everyone  was  too  taken 
up  waiting  for  Missy  to  proclaim.  She  set  her  very 
soul  vibrating;  shut  her  eyes  tightly  a  moment  to 
think;  and,  as  if  in  proof  that  Providence  helps  them 
who  must  help  others,  almost  instantly  she  opened 
them  again. 

"Rocky  Ford!" 

Just  like  that,  out  of  the  blue,  a  quick,  unfaltering, 
almost  unconscious  cry  of  the  inspired.  And,  with 
resounding  acclaim,  her  followers  caught  it  up: 

"Rocky  Ford!  Rocky  Ford!"— "That's  the  tick- 
et !  "—"We'll  have  a  picnic ! "—"  Rocky  Ford !  Rocky 
Ford!" 

Rocky  Ford,  home  of  nymphs,  water-babies  and 
Indian  legend,  was  only  half  a  mile  away.  Again  it 
shone  in  all  its  old-time  romantic  loveliness  on  Mis- 
sy's inward  eye.  And  for  a  fact  it  was  a  good  May- 
time  picnic  place. 

That  day  everything  about  the  spot  seemed  in- 
vested with  a  special  kind  of  beauty,  the  kind  of 


272  Missy 

beauty  you  feel  so  poignantly  in  stories  and  pictures 
but  seldom  meet  face  to  face  in  real  life.  The  In- 
dian maiden  became  a  memory  you  must  believe  in: 
she  had  loved  someone  and  they  were  parted  some- 
how and  she  was  turned  into  a  swan  or  something. 
Off  on  either  side  the  creek,  the  woods  stretched 
dim  and  mysterious;  but  nearby,  on  the  banks,  the 
little  new  leaves  stirred  and  sparkled  in  the  sun  like 
green  jewels;  and  the  water  dribbled  and  sparkled 
over  the  flat  white  stones  of  the  ford  like  a  million 
swishing  diamonds;  and  off  in  the  distance  there 
were  sounds  which  may  have  been  birds — or,  per- 
haps, the  legendary  maiden  singing;  and,  farther 
away,  somewhere,  a  faint  clanging  music  which  must 
be  cow-bells,  only  they  had  a  remote  heavenly  qual- 
ity rare  in  cow-bells. 

And,  all  the  while,  the  sun  beaming  down  on  the 
ford,  intensely  soft  and  bright.  Why  is  it  that  the 
sun  can  seem  so  much  softer  and  brighter  in  some 
places  than  in  others? 

Missy  felt  that  soft  brightness  penetrating  deeper 
and  deeper  into  her  being.  It  seemed  a  sort  of  lim- 
pid, shining  tide  flowing  through  to  her  very  soul; 
it  made  her  blood  tingle,  and  her  soul  quiver.  And, 
in  some  mysterious  way,  the  presence  of  Raymond 
Bonner,  consciousness  of  Raymond — Raymond  him- 
self— began  to  seem  all  mixed  up  with  this  ineffable, 
surging  effulgence.  Missy  recognized  that  she  had 
long  experienced  a  secret,  strange,  shy  kind  of  feel- 
ing toward  Raymond.  He  was  so  handsome  and  so 
gay,  and  his  dark  eyes  told  her  so  plainly  that  he 


A  Happy  Downfall  273 

liked  her,  and  he  carried  her  books  home  for  her  de- 
spite the  fact  that  the  other  boys  teased  him.  The 
other  girls  had  teased  Missy,  too,  so  that  sometimes 
she  didn't  know  whether  she  was  more  happy  or  em- 
barrassed over  Raymond's  admiration. 

But,  to-day,  everyone  seemed  lifted  above  such 
childish  rudeness.  When  Missy  had  first  led  off 
from  the  watering-tank  toward  Rocky  Ford,  Ray- 
mond had  taken  his  place  by  her  side,  and  he  main- 
tained it  there  masterfully  though  two  or  three  other 
boys  tried  to  include  themselves  in  the  class  presi- 
dent's group — "buttinskys,"  Raymond  termed  them. 
Once,  as  they  walked  together  along  the  road, 
Raymond  took  hold  of  her  hand.  He  had  done  that 
much  before,  but  this  was  different.  Those  other 
times  did  not  count.  She  knew  that  this  was  differ- 
ent and  that  he,  too,  knew  it  was  different.  They 
glanced  at  each  other,  and  then  quickly  away. 

Then,  when  they  turned  off  into  a  field,  to  avoid 
meeting  people  who  might  ask  questions,  Raymond 
held  together  the  barbed  wires  of  the  fence  very  care- 
fully, so  she  could  creep  under  without  mishap.  And 
when  they  neared  the  woods,  he  kicked  all  the  twigs 
from  her  path,  and  lifted  aside  the  underbrush  lest 
it  touch  her  face.  And  at  each  opportunity  for  this 
delicious  solicitude  they  would  look  at  each  other, 
and  then  quickly  away. 

That  was  in  many  ways  an  unforgettable  picnic; 
many  were  the  unheard-of  things  carried  out  as  soon 
as  thought  of.  For  example,  the  matter  of  lunch. 
What  need  to  go  hungry  when  there  were  eggs  in  a 


274  Missy 

farmer's  henhouse  not  a  half-mile  away,  and  pota- 
toes in  the  farmer's  store-house,  and  sundry  other 
edibles  all  spread  out,  as  if  waiting,  in  the  farmer's 
cellar?  (Blessings  on  the  farmer's  wife  for  going 
avisiting  that  day!) 

The  boys  made  an  ingenious  oven  of  stones  and  a 
glorious  fire  of  brush;  and  the  girls  made  cunning 
dishes  out  of  big,  clean-washed  leaves.  Then,  when 
the  potatoes  and  eggs  were  ready,  all  was  devoured 
with  a  zest  that  paid  its  own  tribute  to  the  fair 
young  cooks;  and  the  health  of  the  fair  young  cooks 
was  drunk  in  Swan  Creek  water,  cupped  in  sturdy 
masculine  hands;  and  even  the  girls  tried  to  drink 
from  those  same  cups,  laughing  so  they  almost  stran- 
gled. A  mad,  merry  and  supremely  delightful  feast. 

After  she  had  eaten,  for  some  reason  Missy  felt  a 
craving  to  wander  off  somewhere  and  sit  still  a  while. 
She  would  have  loved  to  stretch  out  in  the  grass,  and 
half-close  her  eyes,  and  gaze  up  at  the  bits  of  shining, 
infinite  blue  of  the  sky,  and  dream.  But  there  was 
Raymond  at  her  elbow — and  she  wanted,  even  more 
than  she  wanted  to  be  alone  and  dream,  Raymond  to 
be  there  at  her  elbow. 

Then,  too,  there  were  all  the  others.  Someone 
shouted : 

"What'll  we  do  now?    What 'II  we  do,  Missy  ?" 

So  the  class  president  dutifully  set  her  wits  to 
work.  Around  the  flat  white  stones  of  the  ford  the 
water  was  dribbling,  warm,  soft,  enticing. 

"Let's  go  wading!"  she  cried. 

Wading! 


A  Happy  Downfall  275 

Usually  Missy  would  have  shrunk  from  appearing 
before  boys  in  bare  feet.  But  this  was  a  special  kind 
of  day  which  held  no  room  for  embarrassment;  and? 
more  quickly  than  it  takes  to  tell  it,  shoes  and  stock- 
ings were  off  and  the  new  game  was  on.  Missy  stood 
on  a  stepping-stone,  suddenly  diffident;  the  water 
now  looked  colder  and  deeper,  the  whispering  cas- 
cadelets  seemed  to  roar  like  breakers  on  a  beach. 
The  girls  were  all  letting  out  little  squeals  as  the 
water  chilled  their  ankles,  and  the  boys  made  feints 
of  chasing  them  into  deeper  water. 

Raymond  pursued  Missy,  squealing  and  skipping 
from  stone  to  stone  till,  unexpectedly,  she  lost  her 
slippery  footing  and  went  sprawling  into  the  shallow 
stream. 

"Oh,  Missy!  I'm  sorry!"  She  felt  his  arms  tug- 
ging at  her.  Then  she  found  herself  standing  on 
the  bank,  red-faced  and  dripping,  feeling  very  wretch- 
ed and  very  happy  at  the  same  time — wretched  be- 
cause Raymond  should  see  her  in  such  plight;  happy 
because  he  was  making  such  a  fuss  over  her  notwith- 
standing. 

He  didn't  seem  to  mind  her  appearance,  but  took 
his  hat  and  began  energetically  to  fan  her  draggled 
hair. 

"I  wish  my  hair  was  curly  like  Kitty  Allen's,"  she 
said. 

"I  like  it  this  way,"  said  Raymond,  unplaiting  the 
long  braids  so  as  to  fan  them  better. 

"  But  hers  curls  up  all  the  prettier  when  it's  wet. 
Mine  strings." 


276  Missy 

"Straight  hair's  the  nicest,"  he  said  with  finality. 

He  liked  straight  hair  best!  A  wave  of  celestial 
bliss  stole  over  her.  It  was  wonderful:  the  big, 
fleecy  clouds  so  serenely  beautiful  up  in  the  enigmatic 
blue;  the  sun  pouring  warmly  down  and  drying  her 
dress  in  uneven  patches;  the  whisperings  of  the  green- 
jewelled  leaves  and  the  swishing  of  the  diamond- 
bubbles  on  the  stones;  the  drowsy,  mysterious  sounds 
from  far  away  in  the  woods,  and  fragrance  every- 
where; and  everything  seeming  delightfully  remote; 
even  the  other  boys  and  girls — everything  and  every- 
body save  Raymond,  standing  there  so  patiently 
fanning  the  straight  hair  he  admired. 

Oh,  the  whole  place  was  entrancing,  entrancing  in 
a  new  way;  and  her  sensations,  too,  were  entrancing 
in  a  new  way.  Even  when  Raymond,  as  he  manipu- 
lated her  hair,  inadvertently  pulled  the  roots,  the 
prickly  pains  seemed  to  tingle  on  down  through  her 
being  in  little  tremors  of  pure  ecstasy. 

Raymond  went  on  fanning  her  hair. 

"Curly  hair's  messy  looking,"  he  observed  after 
a  considerable  pause  during  which,  evidently,  his 
thoughts  had  remained  centred  on  this  pleasing 
theme. 

And  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  Missy  found  herself 
saying  an  inexplicable,  unheard-of  thing: 

"You  can  have  a  lock — if  you  want  to." 

She  glanced  up,  and  then  quickly  down.  And  she 
felt  herself  blushing  again;  she  didn't  exactly  like  to 
blush — yet — yet — 

"Dolwantit?" 


A  Happy  Downfall  277 

Already  Raymond  had  dropped  his  improvised 
fan  and  was  fumbling  for  his  knife. 

"Where?  "he  asked. 

Missy  shivered  deliciously  at  the  imminence  of 
that  bright  steel  blade;  what  if  he  should  let  it  slip? 
—but,  just  then,  eveh  mutilation,  provided  it  be  at 
Raymond's  hand,  didn't  seem  too  terrible. 

"Wherever  you  want,"  she  murmured. 

"All  right — I'll  take  a  snip  here  where  it  twines 
round  your  ear — it  looks  so  sort  of  affectionate. " 

She  giggled  with  him.  Of  course  it  was  all  terri- 
bly silly — and  yet — 

Then  there  followed  a  palpitant  moment  while  she 
held  her  breath  and  shut  her  eyes.  A  derisive  shout 
caused  her  to  open  them  quickly.  There  stood  Don 
Jones,  grinning. 

"Missy  gave  Raymond  a  lock  of  her  hair!  Missy 
gave  Raymond  a  lock  of  her  hair!" 

Missy's  face  grew  hot;  blushing  was  not  now  a 
pleasure;  she  looked  up,  then  down;  she  didn't  know 
where  to  look. 

"Gimme  one,  too!  You  got  to  play  fair,  Missy — 
gimme  one,  too!" 

Then,  in  that  confusion  of  spirit,  she  heard  her 
voice,  which  didn't  seem  to  be  her  own  voice  but  a 
stranger's,  saying: 

"All  right,  you  can  have  one,  too,  if  you  want  it, 
Don." 

Don  forthwith  advanced.  Missy  couldn't  forebear 
a  timid  glance  toward  Raymond.  Raymond  was  not 
looking  pleased.  She  wished  she  might  assure  him 


278  Missy 

she  didn't  really  want  to  give  the  lock  to  Don,  and 
yet,  at  the  same  time,  she  felt  strangely  thrilled  at 
that  lowering  look  on  Raymond's  face.  It  was  curi- 
ous. She  wanted  Raymond  to  be  happy,  yet  she 
didn't  mind  his  being  just  a  little  bit  unhappy — this 
way.  Oh,  how  complicated  and  fascinating  life  can  be ! 

During  the  remainder  of  their  stay  at  the  ford 
Missy  was  preoccupied  with  this  new  revelation  of 
herself  and  with  a  furtive  study  of  Raymond  whose 
continued  sulkiness  was  the  cause  of  it.  Raymond 
didn't  once  come  to  her  side  during  all  that  endless 
three-mile  tramp  back  to  Cherry  vale;  but  she  was 
conscious  of  his  eye  on  her  as  she  trudged  along  be- 
side Don  Jones.  She  didn't  feel  like  talking  to  Don 
Jones.  Nor  was  the  rest  of  the  crowd,  now,  a  live- 
ly band;  it  was  harder  to  laugh  than  it  had  been  in 
the  morning;  harder  even  to  talk.  And  when  they 
did  talk,  little  unsuspected  irritabilities  began  to 
gleam  out.  For  now,  when  weary  feet  must  some- 
how cover  those  three  miles,  thoughts  of  the  jour- 
ney's end  began  to  rise  up  in  the  truants'  minds. 
During  the  exalted  moments  of  'adventure  they  hadn't 
thought  of  consequences.  That's  a  characteristic 
of  exalted  moments.  But  now,  so  to  speak,  the  ball 
was  over,  the  roses  all  shattered  and  faded,  and  the 
weary  dancers  must  face  the  aftermath  of  to-mor- 
row. .  .  . 

And  Missy,  trudging  along  the  dusty  road  beside 
Don  Jones  who  didn't  count,  felt  all  kinds  of  shad- 
ows rising  up  to  eclipse  brightness  in  her  soul.  What 
would  Professor  Sutton  do? — he  was  fearfully 


A  Happy  Downfall  279 

strict.  And  father  and  mother  would  never  under- 
stand. .  .  . 

If  only  Don  Jones  would  stop  babbling  to  her! 
Why  did  he  persist  in  walking  beside  her,  anyway? 
That  lock  of  hair  didn't  mean  anything!  She  wished 
she  hadn't  given  it  to  him;  why  had  she,  anyway? 
She  herself  couldn't  comprehend  why,  and  Raymond 
would  never,  never  comprehend. 

The  farther  she  walked,  the  less  she  saw  the  pleas- 
anter  aspects  of  Raymond's  jealousy  and  the  more 
what  might  be  the  outcome  of  it.  Perhaps  he'd 
never  have  anything  to  do  with  her  again.  That 
would  be  terrible!  And  she'd  have  such  a  short 
time  to  try  making  it  up.  For  in  less  than  a  month 
she'd  have  to  go  with  Aunt  Isabel  to  Colorado;  and, 
then,  she  wouldn't  see  Raymond  for  weeks  and 
weeks.  Colorado!  It  was  like  talking  of  going  to 
the  moon,  a  dreary,  dead,  far-off  moon,  with  no  one 
in  it  to  speak  to.  Aunt  Isabel?  Aunt  Isabel  was 
sweet,  but  she  was  so  old — nearly  thirty!  How 
could  she,  Missy,  go  and  leave  Raymond  misunder- 
standing her  so? 

But  who  can  tell  how  Fate  may  work  to  confound 
rewards  and  punishments! 

It  was  to  become  a  legend  in  the  Cherryvale  High 
School  how,  once  on  a  day  in  May,  a  daring  band 
ran  away  from  classes  and  how  the  truant  class,  in 
toto,  was  suspended  for  the  two  closing  weeks  of  the 
semester,  with  no  privilege  of  "making  up"  the 
grades.  And  the  legend  runs  that  one  girl,  and  the 
most  prominent  girl  in  the  class  at  that,  by  reason 


280  Missy 

of  this  sentence  fell  just  below  the  minimum  grade 
required  to  "pass." 

Yes;  Missy  failed  again.  Of  course  that  was  very 
bad.  And  taking  her  disgrace  home — indeed,  that 
was  horrid.  As  she  faced  homeward  she  felt  so 
heavy  inside  that  she  knew  she  could  never  eat  her 
dinner.  Besides,  she  was  walking  alone — Raymond 
hadn't  walked  home  with  her  since  the  wretched 
picnic.  She  sighed  a  sigh  that  was  not  connected 
with  the  grade  card  in  her  pocket.  For  one  trouble 
dwarfs  another  in  this  world;  and  friendship  is  more 
than  honours — a  sacred  thing,  friendship!  Only 
Raymond  was  so  unreasonable  over  Don's  lock  of 
hair;  yet,  for  all  the  painfulness  of  Raymond's  cross- 
ness, Missy  smiled  the  littlest  kind  of  a  down-eyed, 
secret  sort  of  smile  as  she  thought  of  it.  ...  It  was 
so  wonderful  and  foolish  and  interesting  how  much 
he  cared  that  Missy  began  to  question  what  he'd  do 
if  she  got  Don  to  give  her  a  lock  of  his  hair. 

Then  she  sobered  suddenly,  as  you  do  at  a  funeral 
after  you  have  forgotten  where  you  are  and  then  re- 
member. That  card  was  an  unpleasant  thing  to  take 
home!  .  .  .  Just  what  did  Raymond  mean  by  giv- 
ing Kitty  Allen  a  lock  of  his  hair?  And  doing  it  be- 
fore Missy  herself — "  Kitty,  here's  that  lock  I  prom- 
ised you" — just  like  that.  Then  he  had  laughed 
and  joked  as  if  nothing  unusual  had  happened— 
only  was  he  watching  her  out  of  the  corner  of  his 
eye  when  he  thought  she  wasn't  looking?  That  was 
the  real  question.  The  idea  of  Raymond  trying  to 
make  her  jealous!  How  simple-minded  boys  are! 


A  Happy  Downfall  281 

But,  after  all,  what  a  dear,  true  friend  he  had  proved 
himself  in  the  past — before  she  offended  him.  And 
how  much  more  is  friendship  than  mere  pleasures 
like  travel — like  going  to  Colorado. 

But  was  he  jealous?  If  he  was — Missy  felt  an 
inexplicable  kind  of  bubbling  in  her  heart  at  that 
idea.  But  if  he  wasn't — well,  of  course  it  was 
natural  she  should  wonder  whether  Raymond  looked 
on  friendship  as  a  light,  come-and-go  thing,  and  on 
locks  of  hair  as  meaning  nothing  at  all.  For  he  had 
never  been  intimate  with  Kitty  Allen;  and  he  had 
said  he  didn't  like  curly  hair.  Yet,  probably,  he 
had  one  of  Kitty  Allen's  ringlets.  .  .  .  Missy  felt  a 
new,  hideous  weight  pulling  down  her  heart. 

Of  course  she  had  given  that  straight  wisp  to  Don 
Jones — but  what  else  could  she  do  to  keep  him  from 
telling?  Oh,  life  is  a  muddle!  And  here,  in  less 
than  a  week,  Aunt  Isabel  would  come  by  and  whisk 
her  off  to  the  ends  of  the  earth;  and  she  might  have 
to  go  without  really '  knowing  what  Raymond 
meant.  .  .  . 

And  oh,  yes — that  old  card!  How  dreary  life 
can  be  as  one  grows  older. 

Missy  waited  to  show  the  card  till  her  father  came 
home  to  supper — she  knew  it  was  terribly  hard  for 
father  to  be  stern.  But  when  Missy,  all  mute  appeal, 
extended  him  the  report,  he  looked  it  over  in  silence 
and  then  passed  it  on  to  mother.  Mother,  too, 
examined  it  with  maddening  care. 

"Well,"  she  commented  at  last.  "I  see  you've 
failed  again." 


282  Missy 

"It  was  all  the  fault  of  those  two  weeks'  grades," 
the  culprit  tried  to  explain.  "If  it  hadn't  been  for 
that—" 

"But  there  was  'that.'"  Mother's  tone  was 
terribly  unsympathetic. 

"I  didn't  think  of  grades — then." 

"No,  that's  the  trouble.  I've  warned  you,  Missy. 
You've  got  to  learn  to  think.  You'll  have  to  stay 
home  and  make  up  those  grades  this  summer. 
You'd  better  write  to  Aunt  Isabel  at  once,  so  she 
won't  be  inconvenienced." 

Mother's  voice  had  the  quiet  ring  of  doom. 

Tender-hearted  father  looked  away,  out  the 
window,  so  as  not  to  see  the  disappointment  on  his 
daughter's  face.  But  Missy  was  gazing  down  her 
nose  to  hide  eyes  that  were  shining.  Soon  she  made 
an  excuse  to  get  away. 

Out  in  the  summerhouse  it  was  celestially  beautiful 
and  peaceful.  And,  magically,  all  this  peace  and 
beauty  seemed  to  penetrate  into  her  and  become  a 
part  of  herself.  The  glory  of  the  pinkish-mauve 
sunset  stole  in  and  delicately  tinged  her  so;  the 
scent  of  the  budding  ramblers,  and  of  the  freshly- 
mowed  lawn,  became  her  own  fragrant  odour;  the 
softTsong  of  the  breeze  rocking  the  leaves  became 
her  own  soul's  lullaby.  Oh,  it  was  a  heavenly 
world,  and  the  future  bloomed  with  enchantments! 
She  could  stay  in  Cherryvale  this  summer!  Dear 
Cherry  vale!  Green  prairies  were  so  much  nicer  than 
snow-covered  mountains,  and  gently  sloping  hills 
than  sharp-pointing  peaks;  and  much,  much  nicer 


A  Happy  Downfall  283 

than  tempestuous  waterfalls  was  the  sweet  placidity 
of  Swan  Creek.  Dear  Swan  Creek.  .  .  . 

The  idea  of  Raymond's  trying  to  make  her  jealous! 
How  simple-minded  boys  are!  But  what  a  dear, 
true  friend  he  was,  and  how  much  more  is  friendship 
than  mere  pleasures  like  travel — or  prominence  or 
fine  grades  or  anything.  .  .  . 

It  was  at  this  point  in  her  cogitations  that  Missy, 
seeing  her  Anthology — an  intimate  poetic  com- 
panion— where  she'd  left  it  on  a  bench,  dreamily 
picked  it  up,  turned  a  few  pages,  and  then  was 
moved  to  write.  We  have  borrowed  her  product  to 
head  this  story. 

Meanwhile,  back  in  the  house,  her  father  might 
have  been  heard  commenting  on  the  noble  behaviour 
of  his  daughter. 

"Didn't  let  out  a  single  whimper — brave  little 
thing!  We  must  see  to  it  that  she  has  a  good  time 
at  home — poor  young  one!  I  think  we'd  better 
get  the  car  this  summer,  after  all." 


IX 

Dobson  Saves  the  Day 

TT  was  two  years  after  the  Spanish  war;  and  she 
was  seventeen  years  old  and  about  to  graduate. 

On  the  Senior  class  roster  of  the  Cherryvale  High 
School  she  was  catalogued  as  Melissa  Merriam,  well 
down — in  scholarship's  token — toward  the  tail-end 
of  twenty-odd  other  names.  To  the  teachers  the  list 
meant  only  the  last  young  folks  added  to  a  back- 
reaching  line  of  girls  and  boys  who  for  years  and 
years  had  been  coming  to  "Commencement"  with 
"credits"  few  or  many,  large  expectant  eyes  fixed 
on  the  future,  and  highly  uncertain  habits  of  be- 
haviour; but,  to  the  twenty-odd,  such  dead  prosiness 
about  themselves  would  have  been  inconceivable 
even  in  teachers. 

And  Missy  ? 

Well,  there  were  prettier  girls  in  the  class,  and 
smarter  girls — and  boys,  too;  yet  she  was  the  one 
from  all  that  twenty-odd  who  had  been  chosen  to 
deliver  the  Valedictory.  Did  there  ever  exist  a 
maid  who  did  not  thrill  to  proof  that  she  was  popular 
with  her  mates?  And  when  that  tribute  carries 
with  it  all  the  possibilities  of  a  Valedictory — double, 
treble  the  exultation. 

284 


Dob  son  Saves  the  Day  285 

The  Valedictory!  When  Missy  sat  in  the  class- 
room, exhausted  with  the  lassitudinous  warmth  of 
spring  and  with  the  painful  uncertainty  of  whether 
she'd  be  called  to  translate  the  Vergil  passage  she 
hadn't  mastered,  visions  of  that  coming  glory  would 
rise  to  brighten  weary  hours;  and  the  last  thing  at 
night,  in  falling  asleep,  as  the  moon  stole  in  tenderly 
to  touch  her  smiling  face,  she  took  them  to  her 
dreams.  She  saw  a  slender  girl  in  white,  standing 
alone  on  a  lighted  stage,  gazing  with  luminous  eyes 
out  on  a  darkened  auditorium.  Sometimes  they 
had  poky  old  lectures  in  that  Opera  House.  Some- 
body named  Ridgely  Holman  Dobson  was  billed  to 
lecture  there  now — before  Commencement;  but 
Missy  hated  lectures;  her  vision  was  of  something 
lifted  far  above  such  dismal,  useful  communications. 
She  saw  a  house  as  hushed  as  when  little  Eva  dies — 
all  the  people  listening  to  the  girl  up  there  illumined : 
the  lift  and  fall  of  her  voice,  the  sentiments  fine  and 
noble  and  inspiring.  They  followed  the  slow  grace 
of  her  arms  and  hands — it  was,  indeed,  as  if  she 
held  them  in  the  hollow  of  her  hand.  And  then, 
finally,  when  she  had  come  to  the  last  undulating 
cadence,  the  last  vibrantly  sustained  phrase,  as  she 
paused  and  bowed,  there  was  a  moment  of  hush — 
and  then  the  applause  began.  Oh,  what  applause! 
And  then,  slowly,  graciously,  modestly  but  with  a 
certain  queenly  pride,  the  shining  figure  in  white 
turned  and  left  the  stage. 

She  could  see  it  all:  the  way  her  "waved"  hair 
would  fluff  out  and  catch  the  light  like  a  kind  of  halo, 


286  Missy 

and  each  one  of  the  nine  organdie  ruffles  that  were 
going  to  trim  the  bottom  of  her  dress;  she  could  even 
see  the  glossy,  dark  green  background  of  potted 
palms — mother  had  promised  to  lend  her  two  biggest 
ones.  Yes,  she  could  see  it  and  hear  it  to  the  utmost 
completeness — save  for  one  slight  detail:  that  was 
the  words  of  the  girlish  and  queenly  speaker.  It 
seemed  all  wrong  that  she,  who  wasn't  going  to  be  a 
dull  lecturer,  should  have  to  use  words,  and  so  many 
of  them!  You  see,  Missy  hadn't  yet  written  the 
Valedictory. 

But  that  didn't  spoil  her  enjoyment  of  the  vision; 
it  would  all  come  to  her  in  time.  Missy  believed  in 
Inspiration.  Mother  did  not. 

Mother  had  worried  all  through  the  four  years 
of  her  daughter's  high  school  career — over  "grades" 
or  "exams"  or  "themes"  or  whatnot.  She  had 
fretted  and  urged  and  made  Missy  get  up  early  to 
study;  had  even  punished  her.  And,  now,  she  was 
sure  Missy  would  let  time  slide  by  and  never  get  the 
Valedictory  written  on  time.  The  two  had  already 
"had  words"  over  it.  Mother  was  dear  and  tender 
and  sweet,  and  Missy  would  rather  have  her  for 
mother  than  any  other  woman  in  Cherryvale,  but 
now  and  then  she  was  to  be  feared  somewhat. 

Sometimes  she  would  utter  an  ugly,  upsetting 
phrase: 

"How  can  you  dilly-dally  so,  Missy?  You  put 
everything  off! — put  off — put  off!  Now,  go  and  try 
to  get  that  thesis  started!'* 

There  was  nothing  for  Missy  to  do  but  go  and  try 


Dob  son  Saves  the  Day  287 

to  obey.  She  took  tablet  and  pencil  out  to  the 
summerhouse,  where  it  was  always  inspiringly  quiet 
and  beautiful;  she  also  took  along  the  big  blue- 
bound  Anthology  from  the  living-room  table — an 
oft-tapped  fount;  but  even  reading  poetry  didn't 
seem  able  to  lift  her  to  the  creative  mood.  And  you 
have  to  be  in  the  mood  before  you  can  create, 
don't  you?  Missy  felt  this  necessity  vaguely  but 
strongly;  but  she  couldn't  get  it  across  to  mother. 

And  even  worse  than  mother's  reproaches  was 
when  father  finally  gave  her  a  "talking  to";  father 
was  a  big,  wise,  but  usually  silent  man,  so  that  when 
he  did  speak  his  words  seemed  to  carry  a  double 
force.  Missy's  young  friends  were  apt  to  show  a 
little  awe  of  father,  but  she  knew  he  was  enormously 
kind  and  sympathetic.  Long  ago — oh,  years  before 
— when  she  was  a  little  girl,  she  used  to  find  it  easier 
to  talk  to  him  than  to  most  grown-ups;  about  all 
kinds  of  unusual  things — the  strange,  mysterious, 
fascinating  thoughts  that  come  to  one.  But  lately, 
for  some  reason,  she  had  felt  more  shy  with  father. 
There  was  much  she  feared  he  mightn't  understand 
— or,  perhaps,  she  feared  he  might  understand. 

So,  in  this  rather  unsympathetic  domestic  environ- 
ment, the  class  Valedictorian,  with  the  kindling  of 
her  soul  all  laid,  so  to  speak,  uneasily  awaited  the 
divine  spark.  It  was  hard  to  maintain  an  easy 
assumption  that  all  was  well;  especially  after  the 
affair  of  the  hats  got  under  way. 

Late  in  April  Miss  Ackerman,  the  Domestic  Sci- 
ence teacher,  had  organized  a  special  night  class  in 


288  Missy 

millinery  which  met,  in  turns,  at  the  homes  of  the 
various  members.  The  girls  got  no  "credit"  for  this 
work,  but  they  seemed  to  be  more  than  compensated 
by  the  joy  of  creating,  with  their  own  fingers,  new 
spring  hats  which  won  them  praise  and  admiration. 
Kitty  Allen's  hat  was  particularly  successful.  It  was 
a  white  straw  "flat^"  faced  and  garlanded  with  blue. 
Missy  looked  at  its  picturesque  effect,  posed  above 
her  "best  friend's"  piquantly  pretty  face,  with  an 
envy  which  was  augmented  by  the  pardonable  note 
of  pride  in  Kitty's  voice  as  she'd  say:  "Oh,  do  you 
really  like  it? — I  made  it  myself,  you  know." 

If  only  she,  Missy,  might  taste  of  this  new  kind  of 
joy!  She  was  not  a  Domestic  Science  girl;  but, 
finally,  she  went  toMissAckermanand — oh, rapture! 
— obtained  permission  to  enter  the  millinery  class. 

However,  there  was  still  the  more  difficult  matter 
of  winning  mother's  consent.  As  Missy  feared,  Mrs. 
Merriam  at  once  put  on  her  disapproving  look. 

"No,  Missy.  You've  already  got  your  hands  full. 
Have  you  started  the  thesis  yet  ? " 

"Oh,  mother! — I'll  get  the  thesis  done  all  right! 
And  this  is  such  a  fine  chance! — all  the  girls  are 
learning  how  to  make  their  own  hats.  And  I  thought, 
maybe,  after  I'd  learned  how  on  my  own,  that  may- 
be I  could  make  you  one.  Do  you  remember  that 
adorable  violet  straw  you  used  to  have  when  I  was 
a  little  girl? — poke  shape  and  with  the  pink  rose?  I 
remember  father  always  said  it  was  the  most  becom- 
ing hat  you  ever  had.  And  I  was  thinking,  maybe, 
I  could  make  one  something  like  that!" 


Dob s on  Saves  the  Day  289 

"I'm  afraid  I've  outgrown  pink  roses,  dear."  But 
mother  was  smiling  a  soft,  reminiscent  little  shadow 
of  a  smile. 

"But  you  haven't  outgrown  the  poke  shape — and 
violet1  Oh,  mother!" 

"Well,  perhaps — we'll  see.  But  you  mustn't  let  it 
run  away  with  you.  You  must  get  that  thesis  started." 

Not  for  nothing  had  Missy  been  endowed  with 
eyes  that  could  shine  and  a  voice  that  could  quaver; 
yes,  and  with  an  instinct  for  just  the  right  argument 
to  play  upon  the  heart-strings. 

She  joined  the  special  night  class  in  millinery.  She 
learned  to  manipulate  troublesome  coils  of  wire  and 
pincers,  and  to  evolve  a  strange,  ghostly  si  eleton- 
thing  called  a  "frame,"  but  when  this  was  finally 
covered  with  crinoline  and  tedious  rows-on-rows  of 
straw  braid,  drab  drudgery  was  over  and  the  deli- 
ciousness  began. 

Oh,  the  pure  rapture  of  "trimming"!  Missy's 
first  venture  was  a  wide,  drooping  affair,  something 
the  shape  of  Kitty  Allen's,  only  her  own  had  a  much 
subtler,  more  soul-satisfying  colour  scheme.  The 
straw  was  a  subtle  blue  shade — the  colour  Raymond 
Bonner,  who  was  a  classmate  and  almost  a  "beau," 
wore  so  much  in  neckties — and  the  facing  shell-pink, 
a  delicate  harmony;  but  the  supreme  ecstasy  came 
with  placing  the  little  silken  flowers,  pink  and  mauve 
and  deeper  subtle-blue,  in  effective  composition  upon 
that  heavenly  background;  and,  in  just  the  one  place, 
a  glimpse  of  subtle-blue  ribbon,  a  sheen  as  gracious 
as  achieved  by  the  great  Creator  when,  with  a  mas- 


290  Missy 

ter's  eye,  on  a  landscape  he  places  a  climactic  stroke 
of  shining  blue  water.  Indeed,  He  Himself  surely 
can  view  His  handiwork  with  no  more  sense  of  grati- 
fication than  did  Missy,  regarding  that  miracle  of 
colour  which  was  her  own  creation. 

Oh,  to  create!  To  feel  a  blind,  vague,  ineffable 
urge  within  you,  stealing  out  to  tangibility  in  colour 
and  form!  Earth — nor  Heaven,  either — can  produce 
no  finer  rapture. 

Missy's  hat  was  duly  admired.  Miss  Ackerman 
said  she  was  a  "real  artist";  when  she  wore  it  to 
Sunday-school  everybody  looked  at  her  so  much  she 
found  it  hard  to  hold  down  a  sense  of  unsabbatical 
pride;  father  jocosely  said  she'd  better  relinquish  her 
dreams  of  literary  fame  else  she'd  deprive  the  world 
of  a  fine  milliner;  and  even  mother  admitted  that 
Mrs.  Anna  Stubbs,  the  leading  milliner,  couldn't 
have  done  better.  However,  she  amended:  "Now, 
don't  forget  your  school  work,  dear.  Have  you  de- 
cided on  the  subject  of  your  thesis  yet?" 

Missy  had  not.  But,  by  this  time,  the  hat  busi- 
ness was  moving  so  rapidly  that  she  had  even  less 
time  to  worry  over  anything  still  remote,  like  the 
thesis — plenty  of  time  to  think  of  that;  now,  she  was 
dreaming  of  how  the  rose  would  look  blooming  radi- 
antly from  this  soft  bed  of  violet  straw;  .  .  .  and, 
now,  how  becoming  to  Aunt  Nettie  would  be  this 
misty  green,  with  cool-looking  leaves  and  wired  sil- 
ver gauze  very  pure  and  bright  like  angels'  wings — 
dear  Aunt  Nettie  didn't  have  much  "taste,"  and 
Missy  indulged  in  a  certain  righteous  glow  in  thus 


Dob  son  Saves  the  Day  291 

providing  her  with  a  really  becoming,  artistic  hat. 
Then,  after  Aunt  Nettie's,  she  planned  one  for  Mar- 
guerite. Marguerite  was  the  hired  girl,  mulatto,  and 
had  the  racial  passion  for  strong  colour.  So  Missy 
conceived  for  her  a  creation  that  would  be  at  once 
satisfying  to  wearer  and  beholder.  How  wonderful 
with  one's  own  hands  to  be  able  to  dispense  pleasure! 
Missy,  working,  felt  a  peculiarly  blended  joy;  it  is  a 
gratification,  indeed,  when  a  pleasing  occupation  is 
seasoned  with  the  fine  flavour  of  noble  altruism. 

She  hadn't  yet  thought  of  a  theme  for  the  Vale- 
dictory, and  mother  was  beginning  to  make  disturb- 
ing comments  about  "this  hat  mania,'*  when,  by  the 
most  fortuitous  chance,  while  she  was  working  on 
Marguerite's  very  hat — in  fact,  because  she  was  work- 
ing on  it — she  hit  upon  a  brilliantly  possible  idea 
for  the  Valedictory. 

She  was  rummaging  in  a  box  of  discarded  odds 
and  ends  for  "trimmings."  The  box  was  in  mother's 
store-closet,  and  Missy  happened  to  observe  a  pile 
of  books  up  on  the  shelf.  Books  always  interested 
her,  and  even  with  a  hat  on  her  mind  she  paused  a 
moment  to  look  over  the  titles.  The  top  volume 
was  "Ships  That  Pass  in  the  Night" — she  had  read 
that  a  year  or  so  ago — a  delightful  book,  though 
she'd  forgotten  just  what  about.  She  took  it  down 
and  opened  it,  casually,  at  the  title  page.  And  there, 
in  fine  print  beneath  the  title,  she  read: 

Ships  that  pass  in  the  night,  and  speak  each  other  in  passing. 
Only  a  signal  shewn,  and  a  distant  voice  in  the  darkness; 
So,  on  the  ocean  of  life,  we  pass  and  speak  one  another, 
Only  a  look  and  a  voice — then  darkness  again,  and  a  silence. 


292  Missy 

Standing  there  in  the  closet  door,  Missy  read  the 
stanza  a  second  time — a  third.  And,  back  again  at 
her  work,  fingers  dawdled  while  eyes  took  on  a 
dreamy,  preoccupied  expression.  For  phrases  were 
still  flitting  through  her  head:  "we  pass  and  speak 
one  another"  .  .  .  "then  darkness  again,  and  a  si- 
lence" .  .  . 

Very  far  away  it  took  you — very  far,  right  out  on 
the  vast,  surging,  mysterious  sea  of  Life! 

The  sea  of  Life !  .  .  .  People,  like  ships,  always 
meeting  one  another — only  a  look  and  a  voice — and 
then  passing  on  into  the  silence.  .  .  . 

Oh,  that  was  an  idea!  Not  just  a  shallow,  senti- 
mental pretense,  but  a  real  idea,  "deep,"  stirring 
and  fine.  What  a  glorious  Valedictory  that  would 
make! 

And  presently,  when  she  was  summoned  to  sup- 
per, she  felt  no  desire  to  talk;  it  was  so  pleasant  just 
to  listen  to  those  phrases  faintly  and  suggestively  re- 
sounding. All  the  talk  around  her  came  dimly  and, 
sometimes,  so  lost  was  she  in  hazy  delight  that  she 
didn't  hear  a  direct  question. 

Finally  father  asked: 

"What's  the  day-dream,  Missy? — thinking  up  a 
hat  for  me?" 

Missy  started,  and  forgot  to  note  that  his  enquiry 
was  facetious. 

"No,"  she  answered  quite  seriously,  "I  haven't 
finished  Marguerite's  yet." 

"Yes,"  cut  in  mother,  in  the  tone  of  reproach  so 
often  heard  these  days,  "she's  been  frittering  away 


Dobson  Saves  the  Day  293 

the  whole  afternoon.  And  not  a  glimmer  for  the 
thesis  yet!" 

At  that  Missy,  without  thinking,  unwarily  said: 

"Oh,  yes,  I  have,  mother." 

"Oh,"  said  her  mother  interestedly.  "What  is 
it?" 

Missy  suddenly  remembered  and  blushed — grown- 
ups seldom  understand  unless  you're  definite. 

"Well,"  she  amended  diffidently,  "I've  got  the 
subject." 

"What  is  it?"  persisted  mother. 

Everybody  was  looking  at  Missy.  She  poured  the 
cream  over  her  berries,  took  a  mouthful;  but  they  all 
kept  looking  at  her,  waiting. 

"'Ships  That  Pass  in  the  Night,'"  she  had  to  an- 
swer. 

"For  Heaven's  sake!"  ejaculated  Aunt  Nettie. 
"What're  you  going  to  write  about  that?" 

This  was  the  question  Missy  had  been  dreading. 
She  dreaded  it  because  she  herself  didn't  know  just 
what  she  was  going  to  write  about  it.  Everything 
was  still  in  the  first  vague,  delightful  state  of  just 
feeling  it — without  any  words  as  yet;  and  grown-ups 
don't  seem  to  understand  about  this.  But  they 
were  all  staring  at  her,  so  she  must  say  something. 

"Well,  I  haven't  worked  it  out  exactly — it's  just 
sort  of  pouring  in  over  me." 

"What's  pouring  over  you?"  demanded  Aunt  Net- 
tie. 

"Why — the  sea  of  Life,"  replied  Missy  desper- 
ately. 


294  Missy 

"For  Heaven's  sake!"  commented  Aunt  Nettie 
again. 

"It  sounds  vague;  very  vague,"  said  father.  Was 
he  smiling  or  frowning? — he  had  such  a  queer  look 
in  his  eyes.  But,  as  he  left  the  table,  he  paused  be- 
hind her  chair  and  laid  a  very  gentle  hand  on  her 
hair. 

"Like  to  go  out  for  a  spin  in  the  car?" 

But  mother  declined  for  her  swiftly.  "No,  Missy 
must  work  on  her  thesis  this  evening." 

So,  after  supper,  Missy  took  tablet  and  pencil 
once  more  to  the  summerhouse.  It  was  unusually 
beautiful  out  there — just  the  kind  of  evening  to  har- 
monize with  her  uplifted  mood.  Day  was  ending  in 
still  and  brilliant  serenity.  The  western  sky  an  im- 
mensity of  benign  light,  and  draped  with  clouds  of 
faintly  tinted  gauze. 

"Another  day  is  dying,"  Missy  began  to  write; 
then  stopped. 

The  sun  sank  lower  and  lower,  a  reddening  ball  of 
sacred  fire  and,  as  if  to  catch  from  it  a<spark,  Missy 
sat  gazing  at  it  as  she  chewed  her  pencil;  but  no 
words  came  to  be  caught  down  in  pencilled  tangibil- 
ity. Oh,  it  hurt! — all  this  aching  sweetness  in  her, 
surging  through  and  through,  and  not  able  to  bring 
out  one  word! 

"Well?"  enquired  mother  when,  finally,  she  went 
back  to  the  house. 

Missy  shook  her  head. 

Mother  sighed;  and  Missy  felt  the  sigh  echoing  in 
her  own  heart.  Why  were  words,  relatively  so  much 


Dobson  Saves  the  Day  295 

less  than  inspiration,  yet  so  important  for  inspira- 
tion's expression?  And  why  were  they  so  madden- 
ingly elusive? 

For  a  while,  in  her  little  white  bed,  she  lay  and 
stared  hopelessly  out  at  the  street  lamp  down  at  the 
corner;  the  glow  brought  out  a  beautiful  diffusive 
haze,  a  misty  halo.  "Only  a  signal  shewn"  .  .  . 

The  winking  street  lamp  seemed  to  gaze  back  at 
her.  .  .  .  "Sometimes  a  signal  flashes  from  out  the 
darkness"  .  .  .  "Only  a  look"  .  .  .  "But  who 
can  comprehend  the  unfathomable  influence  of  a  look? 
— It  may  come  to  a  soul  wounded  and  despairing — a 
soul  caught  in  a  wide-sweeping  tempest — a  soul  sad 
and  weary y  longing  to  give  up  the  struggle.  ..." 

Where  did  those  words,  ringing  faintly  in  her 
consciousness,  come  from?  She  didn't  know,  was 
now  too  sleepy  to  ponder  deeply.  But  they  had 
come;  that  was  a  promising  token.  To-morrow 
more  would  come;  the  Valedictory  would  flow  on 
out  of  her  soul — or  into  her  soul,  whichever  way  it 
was — in  phrases  serene,  majestic,  ineffable. 

Missy's  eyelids  fluttered;  the  street  lamp's  halo 
grew  more  and  more  irradiant;  gleamed  out  to 
illumine,  resplendently,  a  slender  girl  in  white  stand- 
ing on  a  lighted  stage,  gazing  with  luminous  eyes 
out  on  a  darkened  auditorium,  a  house  as  hushed  as 
when  little  Eva  dies.  All  the  people  were  listening 
to  the  girl  up  there  speaking — the  rhythmic  lift 
and  fall  of  her  voice,  the  sentiments  fine  and  noble 
and  inspiring: 

"Ships  that  pass  in  the  night  and  speak  each  other 


296  Missy 

in  passing.  .  .  .  So,  on  the  ocean  of  life,  we  pass 
and  speak  one  another.  .  .  .  Only  a  look  and  a  voice 
.  .  .  But  who  can  comprehend  the  unfathomable  influ- 
ence of  a  look?  .  .  .  which  may  come  to  a  soul  sad  and 
weary,  longing  to  give  up  the  struggle.  .  .  .  ' 

When  she  awoke  next  morning  raindrops  were 
beating  a  reiterative  plaint  against  the  window,  and 
the  sound  seemed  very  beautiful.  She  liked  lying 
in  bed,  staring  out  at  the  upper  reaches  of  sombre 
sky.  She  liked  it  to  be  rainy  when  she  woke  up — 
there  was  something  about  leaden  colour  everywhere 
and  falling  rain  that  made  you  fit  for  nothing  but 
placid  staring,  yet,  at  the  same  time,  pleasantly 
meditative.  Then  was  the  time  that  the  strange 
big  things  which  filter  through  your  dreams  linger 
evanescently  in  your  mind  to  ponder  over. 

"Only  a  look  and  a  voice — but  who  can  comprehend 
the — the — the  unfathomable  influence  of  a  look?  It 
may  come  to  a  soul — may  come  to  a  soul — " 

Bother!     How  did  that  go? 

Missy  shut  her  eyes  and  tried  to  resummon  the 
vision,  to  rehear  those  rhythmic  words  so  fraught 
with  wisdom.  But  all  she  saw  was  a  sort  of  hetero- 
geneous mass  of  whirling  colours,  and  her  thoughts, 
too,  seemed  to  be  just  a  confused  and  meaningless 
jumble.  Only  her  feeling  seemed  to  remain.  She 
could  hardly  bear  it;  why  is  it  that  you  can  feel  with 
that  intolerably  fecund  kind  of  ache  while  thoughts 
refuse  to  come? 

She  finally  gave  it  up,  and  rose  and  dressed.  It 
was  one  of  those  mornings  when  clothes  seem  pos- 


Dobson  Saves  the  Day  297 

sessed  of  some  demon  so  that  they  refuse  to  go  on 
right.  At  breakfast  she  was  unwontedly  cross,  and 
"talked  back"  to  Aunt  Nettie  so  that  mother  made 
her  apologize.  At  that  moment  she  hated  Aunt 
Nettie,  and  even  almost  disliked  mother.  Then  she 
discovered  that  Nicky,  her  little  brother,  had  mis- 
chievously hidden  her  strap  of  books  and,  all  of  a 
sudden,  she  did  an  unheard-of  thing:  she  slapped  him! 
Nicky  was  so  astonished  he  didn't  cry;  he  didn't 
even  run  and  tell  mother,  but  Missy,  seeing  that 
hurt,  bewildered  look  on  his  face,  felt  greater  re- 
morse than  any  punishment  could  have  evoked. 
She  loved  Nicky  dearly;  how  could  she  have  done 
such  a  thing?  But  she  remembered  having  read 
that  Poe  and  Byron  and  other  geniuses  often  got 
irritable  when  in  creative  mood.  Perhaps  that  was 
it.  The  reflection  brought  a  certain  consolation. 

But,  at  school,  things  kept  on  going  wrong.  In 
the  Geometry  class  she  was  assigned  the  very  "  prop- 
osition" she'd  been  praying  to  elude;  and,  then, 
she  was  warned  by  the  teacher — and  not  too  pri- 
vately— that  if  she  wasn't  careful  she'd  fail  to  pass; 
and  that,  of  course,  would  mean  she  couldn't  gradu- 
ate. At  the  last  minute  to  fail! — after  Miss  Simpson 
had  started  making  her  dress,  and  the  invitations 
already  sent  to  the  relatives,  and  all! 

And  finally,  just  before  she  started  home,  Professor 
Sutton,  the  principal,  had  to  call  her  into  his  office 
for  a  report  on  her  thesis.  The  manuscript  had  to 
be  handed  in  for  approval,  and  was  already  past  due. 
Professor  Sutton  was  very  stern  with  her;  he  said 


298  Missy 

some  kind  of  an  outline,  anyway,  had  to  be  in  by  the 
end  of  the  week.  Of  course,  being  a  grown-up  and  a 
teacher  besides,  he  believed  everything  should  be 
done  on  time,  and  it  would  be  useless  to  try  to  explain 
to  him  even  if  one  could. 

Raymond  Bonner  was  waiting  to  walk  home  with 
her.  Raymond  often  walked  home  with  her  and 
Missy  was  usually  pleased  with  his  devotion;  he 
was  the  handsomest  and  most  popular  boy  in  the 
class.  But,  to-day,  even  Raymond  jarred  on  her. 
He  kept  talking,  talking,  and  it  was  difficult  for  her 
preoccupied  mind  to  find  the  right  answer  in  the 
right  place.  He  was  talking  about  the  celebrity 
who  was  to  give  the  "Lyceum  Course"  lecture  that 
evening.  The  lecturer's  name  was  Dobson.  Oh 
uninspiring  name! — Ridgeley  Holman  Dobson.  He 
was  a  celebrity  because  he'd  done  something-or- 
other  heroic  in  the  Spanish  war.  Missy  didn't 
know  just  what  it  was,  not  being  particularly  in- 
terested in  newspapers  and  current  events,  and 
remote  things  that  didn't  matter.  But  Raymond 
evidently  knew  something  about  Dobson  aside  from 
his  being  just  prominent. 

"I  only  hope  he  kisses  old  Miss  Lightner!"  he 
said,  chortling. 

"Kisses  her?"  repeated  Missy,  roused  from  her 
reveries.  Why  on  earth  should  a  lecturer  kiss  any- 
body, above  all  Miss  Lightner,  who  was  an  old  maid 
and  not  attractive  despite  local  gossip  about  her  being 
" man-crazy  "  ?  "Why  would  he  kiss  Miss  Lightner ? " 

Raymond  looked  at  her  in  astonishment. 


Dobson  Saves  the  Day  299 

"Why,  haven't  you  heard  about  him?" 
Missy  shook  her  head. 

"Why,  he's  always  in  the  papers!  Everywhere  he 
goes,  women  knock  each  other  down  to  kiss  him! 
The  papers  are  full  of  it — don't  say  you've  never 
heard  of  it!" 

But  Missy  shook  her  head  again,  an  expression  of 
distaste  on  her  face.  A  man  that  let  women  knock 
each  other  down  to  kiss  him!  Missy  had  ideals 
about  kissing.  She  had  never  been  kissed  by  any  one 
but  her  immediate  relatives  and  some  of  her  girl 
friends,  but  she  had  her  dreams  of  kisses — kisses 
such  as  the  poets  wrote  about.  Kissing  was  some- 
thing fine,  beautiful,  sacred!  As  sacred  as  getting 
married.  But  there  was  nothing  sacred  about 
kissing  whole  bunches  of  people  who  knocked  each 
other  down — people  you  didn't  even  know.  Missy 
felt  a  surge  of  revulsion  against  this  Dobson  who 
could  so  profane  a  holy  thing. 

"I  think  it's  disgusting,"  she  said. 
At  the  unexpected  harshness  of  her  tone  Raymond 
glanced  at  her  in  some  surprise. 

"And  they  call  him  a  hero!"  she  went  on  scath- 
ingly. 

"Oh,  I  guess  he's  all  right,"  replied  Raymond, 
who  was  secretly  much  impressed  by  the  dash  of 
Dobson.  "It's  just  that  women  make  fools  of 
themselves  over  him." 

"You  mean  he  makes  a  fool  of  himself!  I  think 
he's  disgusting.  I  wouldn't  go  to  hear  him  speak 
for  worlds!" 


300  Missy 

Raymond  wisely  changed  the  subject.  And 
Missy  soon  enough  forgot  the  disgusting  Dobson 
in  the  press  of  nearer  trials.  She  must  get  at  that 
outline;  she  wanted  to  do  it,  and  yet  she  shrank  from 
beginning.  As  often  happens  when  the  mind  is 
restless,  she  had  an  acute  desire  to  do  something 
with  her  hands.  She  wanted  to  go  ahead  with 
Marguerite's  hat,  but  mother,  who  had  a  headache 
and  was  cross,  put  her  foot  down.  "Not  another 
minute  of  dawdling  till  you  write  that  thesis!"  she 
said,  and  she  might  as  well  have  been  Gabriel — or 
whoever  it  is  who  trumpets  on  the  day  of  doom. 

So  Missy  once  more  took  up  tablet  and  pencil. 
But  what's  the  use  commanding  your  mind,  "Now, 
write!"  Your  mind  can't  write,  can  it? — till  it 
knows  what  it's  going  to  write  about.  No  matter 
how  much  the  rest  of  you  wants  to  write. 

At  supper-time  Missy  had  no  appetite.  Mother 
was  too  ill  to  be  at  the  table,  but  father  noticed  it. 

"Haven't  caught  mamma's  headache,  have  you?" 
he  asked  solicitously. 

Missy  shook  her  head;  she  wished  she  could  tell 
father  it  was  her  soul  that  ached.  Perhaps  father 
sensed  something  of  this  for,  after  glancing  at  her 
two  or  three  times,  he  said: 

"Tell  you  what! — Suppose  you  go  to  the  lecture 
with  me  to-night.  Mamma  says  she  won't  feel  able. 
What  do  you  say?" 

Missy  didn't  care  a  whit  to  hear  the  disgusting 
Dobson,  but  she  felt  the  reason  for  her  reluctance 
mightn't  be  understood — might  even  arouse  hateful 


Dob  son  Saves  the  Day  301 

merriment,  for  Aunt  Nettie  was  sitting  there  listening. 
So  she  said  evasively: 

"I  think  mother  wants  me  to  work  on  my  thesis." 

"Oh,  I  can  fix  it  with  mother  all  right,"  said  father. 

Missy  started  to  demur  further  but,  so  listless  was 
her  spirit,  she  decided  it  would  be  easier  to  go  than  to 
try  getting  out  of  it.  She  wouldn't  have  to  pay 
attention  to  the  detestable  Dobson;  and  she  always 
loved  to  go  places  with  father. 

And  it  was  pleasant,  after  he  had  "fixed  it"  with 
mother,  to  walk  along  the  dusky  streets  with  him,  her 
arm  tucked  through  his  as  if  she  were  a  grown-up. 
Walking  with  him  thus,  not  talking  very  much  but 
feeling  the  placidity  and  sense  of  safety  that  always 
came  over  her  in  father's  society,  she  almost  forgot 
the  offensive  celebrity  awaiting  them  in  the  Opera 
House. 

Afterward  Missy  often  thought  of  her  reluctance 
to  go  to  that  lecture,  of  how  narrowly  she  had  missed 
seeing  Dobson.  The  narrow  margins  of  fate!  What 
if  she  hadn't  gone!  Oh,  life  is  thrillingly  uncertain 
and  interwoven  and  mysterious! 

The  Opera  House  was  crowded.  There  were  a 
lot  of  women  there,  the  majority  of  them  staid 
Cherryvale  matrons  who  were  regular  subscribers  to 
the  Lyceum  Course,  but  Missy,  regarding  them  se- 
verely, wondered  if  they  were  there  hoping  to  get 
kissed. 

Presently  Mr.  Siddons,  who  dealt  in  "Real  Es- 
tate and  Loans"  and  passed  the  plate  at  the  Presby- 
terian church,  came  out  on  the  platform  with  an- 


302  Missy 

other  man.  Mr.  Siddons  was  little  and  wiry  and 
dark  and  not  handsome;  Missy  didn't  much  care  for 
him  as  it  is  not  possible  to  admire  a  man  who  looks 
as  if  he  ought  to  run  up  a  tree  and  chatter  and 
swing  from  a  limb  by  a  tail;  besides  he  was  well 
known  to  be  "stingy."  But  his  soul  must  be  all 
right,  since  he  was  a  deacon;  and  he  was  a  leading 
citizen,  and  generally  introduced  speakers  at  the 
Lyceum  Course.  He  began  his  familiar  little  minc- 
ing preamble:  "It  gives  me  great  pleasure  to  have 
the  privilege  of  introducing  to  you  a  citizen  so  dis- 
tinguished and  esteemed — " 

Esteemed! 

Then  the  other  man  walked  forward  and  stood  be- 
side the  little  table  with  the  glass  and  pitcher  of 
water  on  it.  Missy  felt  constrained  to  cast  a  look  at 
the  Honourable  Ridgeley  Holman  Dobson. 

Well,  he  was  rather  handsome,  in  a  way — one  had 
to  admit  that;  he  was  younger  than  you  expect  lec- 
turers to  be,  and  tall  and  slender,  with  awfully  good- 
looking  clothes,  and  had  dark  eyes  and  a  noticeable 
smile — too  noticeable  to  be  entirely  sincere  and  spon- 
taneous, Missy  decided. 

He  began  to  speak,  about  something  that  didn't 
seem  particularly  interesting  to  Missy;  so  she  didn't 
pay  much  attention  to  what  he  was  saying,  but  just 
sat  there  listening  to  the  pleasing  flow  of  his  voice 
and  noting  the  graceful  sweep  of  his  hands — she  must 
remember  that  effective  gesture  of  the  palm  held 
outward  and  up.  And  she  liked  the  way,  now  and 
then,  he  threw  his  head  back  and  paused  and  smiled. 


Dobson  Saves  the  Day  303 

Suddenly  she  caught  herself  smiling,  almost  as  if 
in  response,  and  quickly  put  on  a  sternly  grave  look. 
This  woman-kissing  siren! — or  whatever  you  call 
men  that  are  like  women  sirens.  Well,  she,  for  one, 
wouldn't  fall  for  his  charms!  She  wouldn't  rush  up 
and  knock  other  women  down  to  kiss  him! 

She  was  flaunting  her  disapproval  before  her  as  a 
sort  of  banner  when,  finally,  the  lecturer  came  to  an 
end  and  the  audience  began  their  noisy  business  of 
getting  out  of  their  seats.  Missy  glanced  about,  sus- 
picious yet  alertly  inquisitive.  Would  the  women 
rush  up  and  kiss  him  ?  Her  eyes  rested  on  prim  Mrs. 
Siddons,  on  silly  Miss  Lightner,  on  fat,  motherly 
Mrs.  Allen,  Kitty's  mother.  Poor  Kitty,  if  her 
mother  should  so  disgrace  herself! — Missy  felt  a  mo- 
ment's thankfulness  that  her  own  mother  was  safely 
home  in  bed. 

A  lot  of  people  were  pushing  forward  up  the  aisle 
toward  the  lecturer;  some  were  already  shaking  hands 
with  him — men  as  well  as  women. 

Then  Missy  heard  herself  uttering  an  amazing,  un- 
premeditated thing: 

"Would  you  like  to  go  up  and  shake  hands  with 
Mr.  Dobson,  father?" 

The  moment  after,  she  was  horrified  at  herself. 
Why  had  she  said  that?  She  didn't  want  to  shake 
hands  with  a  repulsive  siren! 

But  father  was  answering: 

"What?    You,  too!" 

Just  what  did  he  mean  by  that?  And  by  that 
quizzical  sort  of  smile  ?  She  felt  her  cheeks  growing 


304  Missy 

hot,  and  wanted  to  look  away.  But,  now,  there  was 
nothing  to  do  but  carry  it  through  in  a  casual  kind 
of  way. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "I  just  thought,  maybe,  it  might 
be  interesting  to  shake  hands  with  such  a  celebrity." 

"I  see,"  said  father.  He  was  still  smiling  but, 
taking  hold  of  her  arm,  he  began  to  elbow  a  slow 
progress  toward  the  platform. 

Just  before  they  reached  it,  Missy  felt  a  sudden 
panicky  flutter  in  her  heart.  She  shrank  back. 

"You  go  first,"  she  whispered. 

So  father  went  first  and  shook  hands  with  Mr. 
Dobson.  Then  he  said: 

"This  is  my  daughter." 

Not  able  to  lift  her  eyes,  Missy  held  out  her  hand; 
she  observed  that  Mr.  Dobson's  was  long  and  slen- 
der but  had  hair  on  the  back  of  it — he  ought  to  do 
something  about  that;  but  even  as  she  thought  this, 
the  hand  was  enclosing  hers  in  a  clasp  beautifully 
warm  and  strong;  and  a  voice,  wonderfully  deep  and 
pleasant  and  vibrant,  was  heard  saying: 

'Your  daughter? — you're  a  man  to  be  envied, 


sir." 


Then  Missy  forced  her  eyes  upward;  Mr.  Dob- 
son's  were  waiting  to  meet  them  squarely — bright 
dark  eyes  with  a  laugh  in  the  back  of  them.  And, 
then,  the  queerest  thing  happened.  As  he  looked  at 
her,  that  half-veiled  laugh  in  his  eyes  seemed  to  take 
on  a  special  quality,  something  personal  and  inti- 
mate and  kindred — as  if  saying:  "  You  and  /  under- 
stand, don't  we  ? " 


Dob  son  Saves  the  Day  305 

Missy's  heart  gave  a  swift,  tumultuous  dive  and 
flight. 

Then  he  let  go  her  hand,  and  patiently  turned  his 
eyes  to  the  next  comer;  but  not  with  the  same  ex- 
pression— Missy  was  sure  of  that.  She  walked  on 
after  her  father  in  a  kind  of  daze.  The  whole  thing 
had  taken  scarcely  a  second;  but,  oh!  what  can  be 
encompassed  in  a  second! 

Missy  was  very  silent  during  the  homeward  jour- 
ney; she  intensely  wanted  to^be  silent.  Once  father 
said: 

"Well,  the  man's  certainly  magnetic — but  he  seems 
a  decent  kind  of  fellow.  I  suppose  a  lot  has  been 
exaggerated."  He  chuckled.  "But  I'll  bet  some  of 
the  Cherryvale  ladies  are  a  little  disappointed." 

"Oh,  that!"  Missy  felt  a  hot  flame  of  indignation 
flare  up  inside  her.  "He  wouldn't  act  that  way!  any- 
body could  tell.  I  think  it's  a  crime  to  talk  so  about 
him!" 

Father  gave  another  chuckle,  very  low;  but  Missy 
was  too  engrossed  with  her  resentment  and  with 
other  vague,  jumbled  emotions  to  notice  it. 

That  night  she  had  difficulty  in  getting  to  sleep. 
And,  for  the  first  time  in  weeks,  visions  of  Com- 
mencement failed  to  waft  her  off  to  dreams.  She 
was  hearing  over  and  over,  in  a  kind  of  lullaby,  a 
deep,  melodious  voice:  "Your  daughter? — you're  a 
man  to  be  envied,  sir!" — was  seeing  a  pair  of  dark 
bright  eyes,  smiling  into  her  own  with  a  beam  of 
kinship  ineffable. 

Next  day,  at  school,  she  must  listen  to  an  after- 


306  Missy 

math  of  gossipy  surmise  anent  the  disappointing 
oscillatory  hero.  At  last  she  could  stand  it  no 
longer. 

"I  think  it's  horrid  to  talk  that  way!  Anybody 
can  see  he's  not  that  kind  of  man!" 

Raymond  Bonner  stared. 

"Why,  I  thought  you  said  he  was  disgusting!" 

But  Missy,  giving  him  a  withering  look,  turned 
and  walked  away,  leaving  him  to  ponder  the  baf- 
fling contrarieties  of  the  feminine  sex. 

A  new  form  of  listlessness  now  took  hold  of  Missy. 
That  afternoon  she  didn't  want  to  study,  didn't  want 
to  go  over  to  Kitty  Allen's  when  her  friend  tele- 
phoned, didn't  even  want  to  work  on  hats;  this  last 
was  a  curious  turn,  indeed,  and  to  a  wise  observer 
might  have  been  significant.  She  had  only  a  desire 
to  be  alone,  and  was  grateful  for  the  excuse  her  the- 
sis provided  her;  though  it  must  be  admitted  pre- 
cious little  was  inscribed,  that  bright  May  after- 
noon, on  the  patient  tablet  which  kept  Missy  com- 
pany in  the  summerhouse. 

At  supper,  while  the  talk  pivoted  inevitably  round 
the  departed  Dobson,  she  sat  immersed  in  preoccu- 
pation so  deep  as  to  be  conspicuous  even  in  Missy. 
Aunt  Nettie,  smiling,  once  started  to  make  a  com- 
ment but,  unseen  by  his  dreaming  daughter,  was  si- 
lenced by  Mr.  Merriam.  And  immediately  after  the 
meal  she'd  eaten  without  seeing,  the  faithful  tablet 
again  in  hand,  Missy  wandered  back  to  the  summer- 
house. 

It  was  simply  heavenly  out  there  now.    The  whole 


Dob  son  Saves  the  Day  307 

western  sky  clear  to  the  zenith  was  laid  over  with  a 
solid  colour  of  opaque  saffron  rose;  and,  almost  half- 
way up  and  a  little  to  the  left,  in  exactly  the  right 
place,  of  deepest  turquoise  blue,  rested  one  mountain 
of  cloud;  it  was  the  shape  of  Fujiyama,  the  sacred 
mount  of  Japan,  which  was  pictured  in  Aunt  Isabel's 
book  of  Japanese  prints.  Missy  wished  she  might 
see  Japan — Mr.  Dobson  had  probably  been  there — 
lecturers  usually  were  great  travellers.  He'd  prob- 
ably been  everywhere — led  a  thrilling  sort  of  life — 
the  sort  of  life  that  makes  one  interesting.  Oh,  if 
only  she  could  talk  to  him — just  once.  She  sighed. 
Why  didn't  interesting  people  like  that  ever  come  to 
Cherryvale  to  live?  Everybody  in  Cherryvale  was  so 
— so  commonplace.  Like  Bill  Cummings,  the  red- 
haired  bank  teller,  who  thought  a  trip  to  St.  Louis 
an  adventure  to  talk  about  for  months!  Or  like  old 
Mr.  Siddons,  or  Professor  Sutton,  or  the  clerks  in 
Mr.  Bonner's  store.  In  Cherryvale  there  was  only 
this  settled,  humdrum  kind  of  people.  Of  course 
there  were  the  boys;  Raymond  was  nice — but  you 
can't  expect  mere  boys  to  be  interesting.  She  re- 
called that  smiling,  subtly  intimate  glance  from  Mr. 
Dobson's  eyes.  Oh,  if  he  would  stay  in  Cherryvale 
just  a  week!  If  only  he'd  come  back  just  once!  If 
only — 

"Missy!  The  dew's  falling!  You'll  catch  your 
death  of  cold !  Come  in  the  house  at  once ! " 

Bother!  there  was  mother  calling.  But  mothers 
must  be  obeyed,  and  Missy  had  to  trudge  dutifully 
indoors — with  a  tablet  still  blank. 


308  Missy 

Next  morning  mother's  warning  about  catching 
cold  fulfilled  itself.  Missy  awoke  with  a  head  that 
felt  as  big  as  a  washtub,  painfully  laborious  breath, 
and  a  wild  impulse  to  sneeze  every  other  minute. 
Mother,  who  was  an  ardent  advocate  of  "taking 
things  in  time,"  ordered  a  holiday  from  school  and  a 
footbath  of  hot  mustard  water. 

"This  all  comes  from  your  mooning  out  there  in 
the  summerhouse  so  late,"  she  chided  as,  with  one 
tentative  finger,  she  made  a  final  test  of  the  water 
for  her  daughter's  feet. 

She  started  to  leave  the  room. 

"Oh,  mother!" 

/"Well?"     Rather     impatiently     Mrs.     Merriam 
turned  in  the  doorway. 

"Would  you  mind  handing  me  my  tablet  and 
pencil?" 

"What!  there  in  the  bath?" 

"I  just  thought" — Missy  paused  to  sneeze — 
"maybe  I  might  get  an  inspiration  or  something, 
and  couldn't  get  out  to  write  it  down." 

"You're  an  absurd  child."  But  when  she  brought 
the  tablet  and  pencil,  Mrs.  Merriam  lingered  to  pull 
the  shawl  round  Missy's  shoulders  a  little  closer; 
Missy  always  loved  mother  to  do  things  like  this — 
it  was  at  such  times  she  felt  most  keenly  that  her 
mother  loved  her. 

Yet  she  was  glad  to  be  left  alone. 

For  a  time  her  eyes  were  on  her  bare,  scarlet  feet 
in  the  yellow  mustard  water.  But  that  unbeautiful 
colour  combination  did  not  disturb  her.  She  did  not 


Dob  son  Saves  the  Day  309 

even  see  her  feet.     She  was  seeing  a  pair  of  bright 
dark  eyes  smiling  intimately  into  her  own. 

Presently,  with  a  dreamy,  abstracted  smile,  she 
opened  the  tablet,  poised  the  pencil,  and  began  to 
write.  But  she  was  scarcely  conscious  of  any  of 
this,  of  directing  her  pencil  even;  it  was  almost  as 
if  the  pencil,  miraculously,  guided  itself.  And  it 
wrote. 


"Are  you  ready  to  take  your  feet  out  now,  Missy?" 

Missy  raised  her  head  impatiently.  It  was  Aunt 
Nettie  in  the  door.  What  was  she  talking  about — 
feet  ? — feet  ?  How  could  Aunt  Nettie  ? 

"Oh!  go  away,  won't  you,  please?"  she  cried 
vehemently. 

"Well,  did  you  ever?"  gasped  Aunt  Nettie.  She 
stood  in  the  doorway  a  minute;  then  tiptoed  away. 
But  Missy  was  oblivious;  the  inspired  pencil  was 
speeding  back  and  forth  again — "  Then  each  craft 
passes  on  into  the  unutterable  darkness — "  and  the 
pencil,  too,  went  on  and  on. 


There  was  the  sound  of  tiptoeing  again  at  the 
door,  of  whispering;  but  the  author  took  no  notice. 
Then  someone  entered,  bearing  a  pitcher  of  hot 
water;  but  the  author  gave  no  sign.  Someone  poured 
hot  water  into  the  foot-tub;  the  author  wriggled  her 
feet. 

"Too  hot,  dear?"  said  mother's  voice. 


3io  Missy 

The  author  shook  her  head  abstractedly.  Words 
were  singing  in  her  ears  to  drown  all  else.  They 
flowed  through  her  whole  being,  down  her  arms, 
out  through  her  hand  and  pencil,  wrote  themselves 
immortally.  Oh,  this  was  Inspiration!  Feeling  at 
last  immeshed  in  tangibility,  swimming  out  on  a 
tide  of  words  that  rushed  along  so  fast  pencil  could 
hardly  keep  up  with  them.  Oh,  Inspiration!  The 
real  thing!  Divine,  ecstatic,  but  fleeting;  it  must  be 
caught  at  the  flood. 

The  pencil  raced. 

And  sad,  indeed,  is  that  life  which  sails  on  its  own  way, 
wrapped  in  its  own  gloom,  giving  out  no  signal  and  heeding  none, 
hailing  not  its  fellow  and  heeding  no  hail.  For  the  gloom  will  grow 
greater  and  greater;  there  will  be  no  sympathy  to  tide  it  over  the 
rocks;  no  momentary  gleams  of  love  to  help  it  through  its  struggle; 
and  the  storms  will  rage  fiercer  and  the  sails  will  hang  lower  until, 
at  last,  it  will  go  down,  alone  and  unwept,  never  knowing  the  joy 
of  living  and  never  reaching  the  goal. 

So  let  these  ships,  which  have  such  a  vast,  such  an  unutterable 
influence,  use  that  influence  for  brightening  the  encompassing 
gloom.  Let  them  not  be  wrapped  in  their  own  selfishness  or  sorrow, 
but  let  their  voice  be  filled  with  hope  and  love.  For,  by  so  doing,  the 
waters  of  Life  will  grow  smoother,  and  the  signals  will  never  flicker. 

The  inspired  instrument  lapsed  from  nerveless 
fingers;  the  author  relaxed  in  her  chair  and  sighed  a 
deep  sigh.  All  of  a  sudden  she  felt  tired,  tired;  but 
it  is  a  blessed  weariness  that  comes  after  a  divine 
frenzy  has  had  its  way  with  you. 

Almost  at  once  mother  was  there,  rubbing  her 
feet  with  towels,  hustling  her  into  bed. 


Dobson  Saves  the  Day  311 

"Now,  you  must  keep  covered  up  a  while,"  she 
said. 

Missy  was  too  happily  listless  to  object.  But, 
from  under  the  hot  blankets,  she  murmured: 

"You  can  read  the  Valedictory  if  you  want  to. 
It's  all  done." 

Commencement  night  arrived.  Twenty-odd  young, 
pulsing  entities  were  lifting  and  lilting  to  a 
brand-new,  individual  experience,  each  one  of  them, 
doubtless,  as  firmly  convinced  as  the  class  Vale- 
dictorian that  he — or  she — was  the  unique  centre 
round  which  buzzed  this  rushing,  bewitchingly 
upsetting  occasion. 

Yet  everyone  had  to  admit  that  the  Valedictorian 
made  a  tremendous  impression:  a  slender  girl  in 
white  standing  alone  on  a  lighted  stage — only  one 
person  in  all  that  assemblage  was  conscious  that  it 
was  the  identical  spot  where  once  stood  the  re- 
nowned Dobson — gazing  with  luminous  eyes  out  on 
the  darkened  auditorium.  It  was  crowded  out 
there  but  intensely  quiet,  for  all  the  people  were 
listening  to  the  girl  up  there  illumined:  the  lift  and 
fall  of  her  voice,  the  sentiments  fine,  noble,  and 
inspiring.  They  followed  the  slow  grace  of  her 
arms  and  hands — it  was,  indeed,  as  if  she  held  them 
in  the  hollow  of  her  hand. 

She  told  all  about  the  darkness  our  souls  sail 
through  under  their  sealed  orders,  knowing  neither 
course  nor  port — and,  though  you  may  be  calloused 
to  these  trite  figures,  are  they  not  solemnly  true 


312  Missy 

enough,  and  moving  enough,  if  you  take  them  to 
heart?  And  with  that  slim  child  alone  up  there 
speaking  these  things  so  feelingly,  it  was  easy  for 
Cherryvale  in  the  hushed  and  darkened  auditorium 
to  feel  with  her.  .  •  .  j 

Sometimes  they  pass  oblivious  of  one  another  in  the  gloom;  some- 
times a  signal  flashes  from  out  the  darkness;  a  signal  which  is  un- 
derstood as  though  an  intense  ray  pierced  the  enveloping  pall  and 
laid  bare  both  souls.  That  signal  is  the  light  from  a  pair  of  human 
eyes,  which  are  the  windows  of  the  soul,  and  by  means  of  which 
alone  soul  can  stand  revealed  to  soul  .  .  . 

I 

The  emotional  impression  of  this  was  tremendous 

on  all  these  dear  Souls  who  had  sailed  alongside  of 
Missy  since  she  was  launched. 

So  let  these  ships,  which  have  such  a  vast,  such  an  unutterable 
influence,  use  that  influence  for  brightening  the  encompassing 
gloom.  .  .  .  For,  by  so  doing,  the  waters  of  Life  will  grow  smoother, 
and  the  signals  will  never  flicker. 

She  came  to  the  last  undulating  cadence,  the  last 
vibrantly  sustained  phrase;  and  then,  as  she  paused 
and  bowed,  there  was  a  moment  of  hush — and  then 
the  applause  began.  Oh,  what  applause!  And 
then,  slowly,  graciously,  modestly  but  with  a  certain 
queenly  pride,  the  shining  figure  in  white  turned 
and  left  the  stage. 

Here  was  a  noble  triumph,  remembered  for  years 
even  by  the  teachers.  Down  in  the  audience  father 
and  mother  and  grandpa  and  grandma  and  all  the 
other  relatives  who,  with  suspiciously  wet  eyes,  were 


Dob  son  Saves  the  Day  313 

assembled  in  the  "reserved  section,"  overheard 
such  murmurs  as:  "And  she's  seventeen! — Where 
do  young  folks  get  those  ideas?" — and,  "What  an 
unusual  gift  of  phraseology!"  And,  after  the  pro- 
gramme, a  reporter  from  the  Cherryvale  Beacon  came 
up  to  father  and  asked  permission  to  quote  certain 
passages  from  the  Valedictory  in  his  "write-up." 
That  was  the  proudest  moment  of  Mr.  Merriam's 
entire  life. 

Missy  had  time  for  only  hurried  congratulations 
from  her  family.  For  she  must  rush  off  to  the 
annual  Alumni  banquet.  She  was  going  with 
Raymond  Bonner  who,  now,  was  hovering  about 
her  more  zealously  than  ever.  She  would  have 
preferred  to  share  this  triumphant  hour  with — with 
— well,  with  someone  older  and  more  experienced 
and  better  able  to  understand.  But  she  liked 
Raymond;  once,  long  ago — a  whole  year  ago — she'd 
had  absurd  dreams  about  him.  Yet  he  was  a  nice 
boy;  the  nicest  and  most  sought-after  boy  in  the 
class.  She  was  not  unhappy  at  going  off  with  him. 

Father  and  mother  walked  home  alone,  commun- 
ing together  in  that  pride-tinged-with-sadness  that 
must,  at  times,  come  to  all  parents. 

Mother  said: 

"And  to  think  I  was  so  worried!  That  hat- 
making,  and  then  that  special  spell  of  idle  mooning 
over  something-or-nothing,  nearly  drove  me  frantic." 

Father  smiled  through  the  darkness. 

"I  suppose,  after  all,"  mother  mused  on,  sur- 
reptitiously wiping  those  prideful  eyes,  "that  there  is 


314  Missy 

something  in  Inspiration,  and  the  dear  child  just 
had  to  wait  till  she  got  it,  and  that  she  doesn't  know 
any  more  than  we  do  where  it  came  from." 

"No,  I  daresay  she  doesn't."  But  sometimes 
father  was  more  like  a  friend  than  a  parent,  and  that 
faint,  unnoted  stress  was  the  only  sign  he  ever  gave 
of  what  he  knew  about  this  Inspiration. 


X 

Missy  Cans  the  Cosmos 

A  S  far  back  as  Melissa  Merriam  could  remember, 
*  she  had  lived  with  her  family  in  the  roomy, 
rambling,  white-painted  house  on  Locust  Avenue. 
She  knew  intimately  erery  detail  of  its  being.  She  had, 
at  various  points  in  her  childhood,  personally  super- 
vised the  addition  of  the  ell  and  of  the  broad  porch 
which  ran  round  three  sides  of  the  house,  the  trans- 
formation of  an  upstairs  bedroom  into  a  regular 
bathroom  with  all  the  pleasing  luxuries  of  modern 
plumbing,  the  installation  of  hardwood  floors  into 
the  "front"  and  "back"  parlours.  She  knew  every 
mousehole  in  the  cellar,  every  spider-web  and 
cracked  window-pane  in  the  fascinating  attic. 

And  the  yard  without  she  also  knew  well:  the 
friendly  big  elm  which,  whenever  the  wind  blew, 
tapped  soft  leafy  fingers  against  her  own  window; 
the  slick  green  curves  of  the  lawn;  the  trees  best 
loved  by  the  birds;  the  morning-glories  on  the  porch 
which  resembled  fairy  church  bells  ready  for  ring- 
ing, the  mignonette  in  the  flower-beds  like  fragrant 
fairy  plumes,  and  the  other  flowers — all  so  clever  at 
growing  up  into  different  shapes  and  colours  when 
you  considered  they  all  came  from  little  hard  brown 

315 


316  Missy 

seeds.  And  she  was  familiar  with  the  summerhouse 
back  in  the  corner  of  the  yard,  so  ineffably  delicious 
in  rambler-time,  but  so  bleakly  sad  in  winter;  and 
the  chicken-yard  just  beyond  she  knew,  too — Missy 
loved  that  peculiar  air  of  placidity  which  pervades 
even  the  most  clucky  and  cackly  of  chicken-yards, 
and  she  loved  the  little  downy  chicks  which  were  so 
adept  at  picking  out  their  own  mothers  amongst 
those  hens  that  looked  all  alike.  When  she  was  a 
little  girl  she  used  to  wonder  whether  the  mothers 
grieved  when  their  children  grew  up  and  got  killed 
and  eaten  and,  for  one  whole  summer,  she  wouldn't 
eat  fried  chicken  though  it  was  her  favourite  delect- 
able. 

All  of  which  means  that  Missy,  during  the  seven- 
teen years  of  her  life,  had  never  found  her  homely 
environment  dull  or  unpleasing.  But,  this  summer, 
she  found  herself  longing,  with  a  strange,  secret  but 
burning  desire,  for  something  "different." 

The  feeling  had  started  that  preceding  May,  about 
the  time  she  made  such  an  impression  at  Commence- 
ment with  her  Valedictory  entitled  "Ships  That  Pass 
in  the  Night/*  The  theme  of  this  oration  was  the 
tremendous  influence  that  can  trail  after  the  chancest 
and  briefest  encounter  of  two  strangers.  No  one 
but  herself  (and  her  father,  though  Missy  did  not 
know  it)  connected  Missy's  eloquent  handling  of  this 
subject  with  the  fleeting  appearance  in  Cherryvale 
of  one  Ridgeley  Holman  Dobson.  Dobson  had  given 
a  "Lyceum  Course"  lecture  in  the  Opera  House,  but 
Missy  remembered  him  not  because  of  what  he  lee- 


Missy  Cans  the  Cosmos  317 

tured  about,  nor  because  he  was  an  outstanding  hero 
of  the  recent  Spanish-American  war,  nor  even  be- 
cause of  the  scandalous  way  his  women  auditors, 
sometimes,  rushed  up  and  kissed  him.  No.  She  re- 
membered him  because  .  .  .  Oh,  well,  it  would 
have  been  hard  to  explain  concretely,  even  to  her- 
self; but  that  one  second,  when  she  was  taking  her 
turn  shaking  hands  with  him  after  the  lecture,  there 
was  something  in  his  dark  bright  eyes  as  they  looked 
deeply  into  her  own,  something  that  made  her  wish 
— made  her  wish — 

It  was  all  very  vague,  very  indefinite.  If  only 
Cherry  vale  afforded  a  chance  to  know  people  like 
Ridgeley  Holman  Dobson !  Unprosaic  people,  really 
interesting  people.  People  who  had  travelled  in  far 
lands;  who  had  seen  unusual  sights,  plumbed  the 
world's  possibilities,  done  heroic  deeds,  laid  hands 
on  large  affairs. 

But  what  chance  for  this  in  poky  Cherryvale? 

This  tranquil  June  morning,  as  Missy  sat  in  the 
summerhouse  with  the  latest  Ladies'  Home  Messen- 
ger in  her  lap,  the  dissatisfied  feeling  had  got  deeper 
hold  of  her  than  usual.  It  was  not  acute  discontent 
— the  kind  that  sticks  into  you  like  a  sharp  splinter; 
it  was  something  more  subtle;  a  kind  of  dull  hope- 
lessness all  over  you.  The  feeling  was  not  at  all  in 
accord  with  the  scene  around  her.  For  the  sun  was 
shining  gloriously;  Locust  Avenue  lay  wonderfully 
serene  under  the  sunlight;  the  iceman's  horses  were 
pulling  their  enormous  wagon  as  if  it  were  not  heavy; 
the  big,  perspiring  iceman  whistled  as  if  those  huge, 


318  Missy 

dripping  blocks  were  featherweight;  and,  in  like 
manner,  everybody  passing  along  the  street  seemed 
contented  and  happy.  Missy  could  remember  the 
time  when  such  a  morning  as  this,  such  a  scene  of 
peaceful  beauty,  would  have  made  her  feel  content- 
ed, too. 

Now  she  sighed,  and  cast  a  furtive  glance  through 
the  leafage  toward  the  house,  a  glance  which  reflect- 
ed an  inner  uneasiness  because  she  feared  her  moth- 
er might  discover  she  hadn't  dusted  the  parlours; 
mother  would  accuse  her  of  "dawdling."  Sighing 
again  for  grown-ups  who  seldom  understand,  Missy 
turned  to  the  Messenger  in  her  lap. 

Here  was  a  double-page  of  "Women  Who  Are 
Achieving" — the  reason  for  the  periodical's  presence 
in  Missy's  society.  There  was  a  half-tone  of  a  lady 
who  had  climbed  a  high  peak  in  the  Canadian  Rock- 
ies; Missy  didn't  much  admire  her  unfeminine  at- 
tire, yet  it  was  something  to  get  one's  picture  print- 
ed— in  any  garb.  Then  there  was  a  Southern  wom- 
an who  had  built  up  an  industry  manufacturing 
babies'  shoes.  This  photograph,  too,  Missy  studied 
without  enthusiasm :  the  shoemaker  was  undeniably 
middle-aged  and  matronly  in  appearance;  nor  did 
the  metier  of  her  achievement  appeal.  Making  ba- 
bies' shoes,  somehow,  savoured  too  much  of  darning 
stockings.  (Oh,  bother!  there  was  that  basket  of 
stockings  mother  had  said  positively  mustn't  go  an- 
other day.) 

Missy's  glance  hurried  to  the  next  picture.  It  pre- 
sented the  only  lady  Sheriff"  in  the  state  of  Colorado. 


Missy  Cans  the  Cosmos  319 

Missy  pondered.  Politics — Ridgeley  Holman  Dob- 
son  was  interested  in  politics;  his  lecture  had  been 
about  something-or-other  political — she  wished,  now, 
she'd  paid  more  attention  to  what  he'd  talked  about. 
Politics,  it  seemed,  was  a  promising  field  in  the  broad- 
ening life  of  women.  And  they  always  had  a  Sheriff 
in  Cherryvale.  Just  what  were  a  Sheriff's  duties? 
And  how  old  must  one  be  to  become  a  Sheriff?  This 
Colorado  woman  certainly  didn't  look  young.  She 
wasn't  pretty,  either — her  nose  was  too  long  and  her 
lips  too  thin  and  her  hair  too  tight;  perhapsilady 
Sheriffs  had  to  look  severe  so  as  to  enforce  the  law. 
Missy  sighed  once  more.  It  would  have  been  pleas- 
ant to  feel  she  was  working  in  the  same  field  with 
Ridgeley  Holman  Dobson. 

Then,  suddenly,  she  let  her  sigh  die  half-grown  as 
her  eye  came  to  the  portrait  of  another  woman  who 
had  achieved.  No  one  could  claim  this  one  wasn't 
attractive-looking.  She  was  young  and  she  was 
beautiful,  beautiful  in  a  peculiarly  perfected  and 
aristocratic  way;  her  hair  lay  in  meticulously  even 
waves,  and  her  features  looked  as  though  they  had 
been  chiselled,  and  a  long  ear-ring  dangled  from  each 
tiny  ear.  Missy  wasn't  surprised  to  read  she  was  a 
noblewoman;  her  name  was  Lady  Sylvia  South- 
woode — what  an  adorable  name! 

The  caption  underneath  the  picture  read: 

"Lady  Sylvia  Southwoode,  Who  Readjusts — and 
Adorns — the  Cosmos." 

Missy  didn't  catch  the  full  editorial  intent,  per- 
haps, in  that  grouping  of  Lady  Sylvia  and  the  Cos- 


3  2O  Missy 

mos;  but  she  was  pleased  to  come  upon  the  word 
Cosmos.  It  was  one  of  her  pet  words.  It  had 
struck  her  ear  and  imagination  when  she  first  en- 
countered it,  last  spring,  in  Psychology  IV-A.  Cos- 
mos— what  an  infinity  of  meaning  lay  behind  the 
two-syllabled  sound !  And  the  sound  of  it,  too,  sung 
itself  over  in  your  mind,  rhythmic  and  fascinating. 
There  was  such  a  difference  in  words;  some  were  but 
poor,  bald  things,  neither  suggesting  very  much  nor 
very  beautiful  to  hear.  Then  there  were  words 
which  were  beautiful  to  hear,  which  had  a  rich  sound 
—  words  like  "mellifluous"  and  "brocade"  and 
"Cleopatra."  But  "Cosmos"  was  an  absolutely 
fascinating  word — perfectly  round,  without  begin- 
ning or  end.  And  it  was  the  kind  to  delight  in  not 
only  for  its  wealth,  so  to  speak,  for  all  it  held  and 
hinted,  but  also  for  itself  alcne;  it  was  a  word  of 
sheer  beauty. 

She  eagerly  perused  the  paragraph  which  ex- 
plained the  manner  in  which  Lady  Sylvia  was  read- 
justing— and  adorning — the  Cosmos.  Lady  Sylvia 
made  speeches  in  London's  West  End — wherever 
that  was — and  had  a  lot  to  do  with  bettering  the 
Housing  Problem  —  whatever  that  was  —  and  was 
noted  for  the  distinguished  gatherings  at  her  home. 
This  alluring  creature  was  evidently  in  politics,  too! 

Missy's  eyes  went  dreamily  out  over  the  yard, 
but  they  didn't  see  the  homely  brick-edged  flower- 
beds nor  the  red  lawn-swing  nor  the  well-worn  ham- 
mock nor  the  white  picket  fence  in  her  direct  line 
of  vision.  They  were  contemplating  a  slight  girlish 


Missy  Cans  the  Cosmos  321 

figure  who  was  addressing  a  large  audience,  some- 
where, speaking  with  swift,  telling  phrases  that  called 
forth  continuous  ripples  of  applause.  It  was  all 
rather  nebulous,  save  for  the  dominant  girlish  fig- 
ure, which  bore  a  definite  resemblance  to  Melissa 
Merriam. 

Then,  with  the  sliding  ease  which  obtains  when 
fancy  is  the  stage  director,  the  scene  shifted.  Vast, 
elaborately  beautiful  grounds  rolled  majestically  up 
to  a  large,  ivy-draped  house,  which  had  turrets  like 
a  castle — very  picturesque.  At  the  entrance  was  a 
flight  of  wide  stone  steps,  overlaid,  now,  with  red 
carpet  and  canopied  with  a  striped  awning.  For 
the  mistress  was  entertaining  some  of  the  nation's 
notables.  In  the  lofty  hall  and  spacious  rooms  glided 
numberless  men-servants  in  livery,  taking  the  wraps 
of  the  guests,  passing  refreshments,  and  so  forth.  The 
guests  were  very  distinguished-looking,  all  the  men 
in  dress  suits  and  appearing  just  as  much  at  home 
in  them  as  Ridgeley  Holman  Dobson  had,  that  night 
on  the  Opera  House  stage.  Yes,  and  he  was  there, 
in  Missy's  vision,  handsomer  than  ever  with  his 
easy  smile  and  graceful  gestures  and  that  kind  of 
intimate  look  in  his  dark  eyes,  as  he  lingered  near 
the  hostess  whom  he  seemed  to  admire.  All  the 
women  were  in  low-cut  evening  dresses  of  softly- 
tinted  silk  or  satin,  with  their  hair  gleaming  in  sleek 
waves  and  long  ear-rings  dangling  down.  The 
young  hostess  wore  ear-rings,  also;  deep-blue  gems 
flashed  out  from  them,  to  match  her  trailing  deep- 
blue  velvet  gown — Raymond  Bonner  had  once  said 


322,  Missy 

Missy  should  always  wear  that  special  shade  of 
deep  blue. 

Let  us  peep  at  the  actual  Missy  as  she  sits  there 
dreaming:  she  has  neutral-tinted  brown  hair,  very 
soft  and  fine,  which  encircles  her  head  in  two  thick 
braids  to  meet  at  the  back  under  a  big  black  bow; 
that  bow,  whether  primly-set  or  tremulously-askew, 
is  a  fair  barometer  of  the  wearer's  mood.  The  hair 
is  undeniably  straight,  a  fact  which  has  often  caused 
Missy  moments  of  concern.  (She  used  to  envy 
Kitty  Allen  her  tangling,  light-catching  curls  till 
Raymond  Bonner  chanced  to  remark  he  considered 
curly  hair  "messy  looking";  but  Raymond's  ap- 
proval, for  some  reason,  doesn't  seem  to  count  for 
as  much  as  it  used  to,  and,  anyway,  he  is  spending 
the  summer  in  Michigan.)  However,  just  below 
that  too-demure  parting,  the  eyes  are  such  as  surely 
to  give  her  no  regret.  Twin  morning-glories,  we 
would  call  them — grey  morning-glories! — opening 
expectant  and  shining  to  the  Sun  which  always 
shines  on  enchanted  seventeen.  And,  like  other 
morning-glories,  Missy's  eyes  are  the  shyest  of 
flowers^  ready  to  droop  sensitively  at  the  first  blight 
of  misunderstanding.  That  is  the  chiefest  trouble  of 
seventeen:  so  few  are  there,  especially  among  old 
people,  who  seem  to  "understand."  And  that  is 
why  one  must  often  retire  to  the  summerhouse  or 
other  solitary  places  where  one  can  without  risk  of 
ridicule  let  one's  dreams  out  for  air. 

Presently  she  shook  off  her  dreams  and  returned 
to  the  scarcely  less  thrilling  periodical  which  had 


Missy  Cans  the  Cosmos  323 

evoked  them.  Here  was  another  photograph — 
though  not  nearly  so  alluring  as  that  of  the  Lady 
Sylvia;  a  woman  who  had  become  an  authoritative 
expounder  of  political  and  national  issues — politics 
again!  Missy  proceeded  to  read,  but  her  full  interest 
wasn't  deflected  till  her  eyes  came  to  some  thought- 
compelling  words : 

"It  was  while  yet  a  girl  in  her  teens,  in  a  little 
Western  town  ("Oh!"  thought  Missy),  that  Miss 
Carson  mounted  the  first  rung  of  the  ladder  she  has 
climbed  to  such  enviable  heights.  She  had  just 
graduated  from  the  local  high  school  ("Oh!  oh!" 
thought  Missy)  and,  already  prodded  by  ambition, 
persuaded  the  editor  of  the  weekly  paper  to  give  her 
a  job.  .  .  ." 

Once  again  Missy's  eyes  wandered  dreamily  out 
over  the  yard.  .  .  . 

Presently  a  voice  was  wafted  out  from  the  side- 
porch  : 

"Missy! — oh,  Missy!    Where  are  you?" 

There  was  mother  calling — bother!  Missy  picked 
up  the  Ladies'  Home  Messenger  and  trudged  back 
to  bondage. 

"What  in  the  world  do  you  mean,  Missy?  You 
could  write  your  name  all  over  the  parlour  furniture 
for  dust!  And  then  those  stockings — " 

Missy  dutifully  set  about  her  tasks.  Yet,  ah!  it 
certainly  is  hard  to  dust  and  darn  while  one's  soul  is 
seething  within  one,  straining  to  fly  out  on  some 
really  high  enterprise  of  life.  However  one  can,  if 
one's  soul  strains  hard  enough,  dust  and  dream;  darn 


324  Missy 

and  dream.  Especially  if  one  has  a  helpful  lilt, 
rhythmic  to  dust-cloth's  stroke  or  needle's  swing, 
throbbing  like  a  strain  of  music  through  one's  head : 

Cosmos — Cosmos! — Cosmos — Cosmos! 

Missy  was  absent-eyed  at  the  midday  dinner,  but 
no  sooner  was  the  meal  over  before  she  feverishly 
attacked  the  darning-basket  again.  Her  energy  may 
have  been  explained  when,  as  soon  as  the  stockings 
were  done,  she  asked  her  mother  if  she  might  go 
down  to  the  Library. 

Mother  and  Aunt  Nettie  from  their  rocking-chairs 
on  the  side-porch  watched  the  slim  figure  in  its  stiffly- 
starched  white  duck  skirt  and  shirt-waist  disappear 
down  shady  Locust  Avenue. 

"I  wonder  what  Missy's  up  to,  now?"  observed 
Aunt  Nettie. 

"Up  to?"  murmured  Mrs.  Merriam. 

"Yes.  She  hardly  touched  her  chop  at  dinner  and 
she's  crazy  about  lamb  chops.  She's  eaten  almost 
nothing  for  days.  And  either  shirking  her  work, 
else  going  at  it  in  a  perfect  frenzy!" 

"Growing  girls  get  that  way  sometimes,"  com- 
mented Missy's  mother  gently.  (Could  Missy  have 
heard  and  interpreted  that  tone,  she  might  have  been 
less  hard  on  grown-ups  who  "don't  understand.") 
"Missy's  seventeen,  you  know." 

"H'm!"  commented  Aunt  Nettie,  as  if  to  say, 
"What's  that  to  do  with  it?"  Somehow  it  seems 
more  difficult  for  spinsters  than  for  mothers  to 
remember  those  swift,  free  flights  of  madness  and 
sweetness  which,  like  a  troop  of  birds  in  the  im- 


Missy  Cans  the  Cosmos  325 

measurable  heavens,  sweep  in  joyous  circles  across 
the  sky  of  youth. 

Meanwhile  Missy,  the  big  ribbon  index  under  her 
sailor-brim  palpitantly  askew,  was  progressing  down 
Locust  Avenue  with  a  measured,  accented  gait  that 
might  have  struck  an  observer  as  being  peculiar. 
The  fact  was  that  the  refrain  vibrating  through  her 
soul  had  found  its  way  to  her  feet.  She'd  hardly 
been  conscious  of  it  at  first.  She  was  just  walking 
along,  in  time  to  that  inner  song: 

"Cosmos — cosmos — cosmos — cosmos — " 

And  then  she  noticed  she  was  walking  with  even, 
regular  steps,  stepping  on  every  third  crack  in  the 
board  sidewalk,  and  that  each  of  these  cracks  she 
stepped  on  ran,  like  a  long  punctuation,  right  through 
the  middle  of  "cosmos."  So  that  she  saw  in  her 
mind  this  picture: 

|Cos|mos|   |cos|mos[   |coslmos[  fcos[mosj 

It  was  fascinating,  watching  the  third  cracks 
punctuate  her  thoughts  that  way.  Then  it  came  to 
her  that  it  was  a  childish  sort  of  game — she  was 
seventeen,  now.  So  she  avoided  watching  the 
cracks.  But  "Cosmos"  went  on  singing  through 
her  head  and  soul. 

She  came  to  Main  Street  and,  ignoring  the  turn 
eastward  which  led  to  the  Public  Library,  faced 
deliberately  in  the  opposite  direction. 
\  She  was,  in  fact,  bound  for  the  office  of  the  Beacon, 
the  local  weekly.  And  thoughts  of  what  tremendous 
possibilities  might  be  stretching  out  from  this  very 


326  Missy 

hour,  and  of  what  she  would  say  to  Ed  Martin,  the 
editor,  made  her  feet  now  skim  along  impatiently, 
and  now  slow  down  with  sudden,  self-conscious 
shyness. 

For  Missy,  even  when  there  was  no  steadily 
nearing  imminence  of  having  to  reveal  her  soul,  on 
general  principles  was  a  little  in  awe  of  Ed  Martin 
and  his  genial  ironies.  Ed  Martin  was  not  only  a 
local  celebrity.  His  articles  were  published  in  the 
big  Eastern  magazines.  He  went  "back  East"  once 
a  year,  and  it  was  said  that  on  one  occasion  he  had 
dined  with  the  President  himself.  Of  course  that 
was  only  a  rumour;  but  Cherryvale  had  its  own  eyes 
for  witness  that  certain  persons  had  stopped  off  in 
town  expressly  to  see  Ed  Martin — personages  whose 
names  made  you  take  notice! 

Missy,  her  feet  terribly  reluctant  now,  her  soul's 
song  barely  a  whisper,  found  Ed  Martin  shirt-sleeved 
in  his  littered  little  sanctum  at  the  back  of  the 
Beacon  office. 

"Why,  hello,  Missy!"  he  greeted,  swinging  round 
leisurely  in  his  revolving-chair.  Ed  Martin  was 
always  so  leisurely  in  his  movements  that  the  marvel 
was  how  he  got  so  much  accomplished.  Local 
dignitaries  of  the  most  admired  kind,  perhaps,  wear 
their  distinction  as  a  kind  of  toga;  but  Ed  was  plump 
and  short,  with  his  scant,  fair  hair  always  rumpled, 
and  a  manner  as  friendly  as  a  child's. 

"Haven't  got  another  Valedictory  for  us  to  print, 
have  you?"  he  went  on  genially. 

Missy  blushed. 


Missy  Cans  the  Cosmos  327 

"I  just  dropped  in  for  a  minute,"  she  began  un- 
easily. "I  was  just  thinking — "  She  hesitated  and 
paused. 

"Yes,"  said  Ed  Martin  encouragingly. 

"I  was  just  thinking — that  perhaps — "  She 
clasped  her  hands  tightly  together  and  fixed  her 
shining  eyes  on  him  in  mute  appeal.  Then: 

"You  see,  Mr.  Martin,  sometimes  it  comes  over 
you — "  She  broke  off  again. 

Ed  Martin  was  regarding  her  out  of  friendly  blue 
eyes. 

"Maybe  I  can  guess  what  sometimes  comes  over 
you.  You  want  to  write — is  that  it?" 

His  kindly  voice  and  manner  emboldened  her. 

"Yes — it's  part  that.'  And  a  feeling  that —  Oh, 
it's  so  hard  to  put  into  words,  Mr.  Martin!" 

"I  know;  feelings  are  often  hard  to  put  into  words. 
But  they're  usually  the  most  worth  while  kind  of 
feelings.  And  that's  what  words  are  for." 

"Well,  I  was  just  feeling  that  at  my  age — that  I 
was  letting  my  life  slip  away — accomplishing  nothing 
really  worth  while.  You  know — ?" 

"Yes,  we  all  feel  like  that  sometimes,  I  guess." 
Ed  Martin  nodded  with  profound  solemnity. 

Oh,  Ed  Martin  was  wonderful!  He  did  under- 
stand things!  She  went  ahead  less  tremulously 
now. 

"And  I  was  feeling  I  wanted  to  get  started  at 
something.  At  something  really  worth  while,  you 
know." 

Ed  Martin  nodded  again. 


328  Missy 

"And  I  thought,  maybe,  you  could  help  me  get 
started — or  something."  She  gazed  at  him  with 
open-eyed  trust,  as  if  she  expected  him  with  a  word 
to  solve  her  undefined  problem. 

"Get  started? — at  writing,  you  mean?" 

Oh,  how  wonderfully  Ed  Martin  understood! 

He  shuffled  some  papers  on  his  desk.  "Just  what 
do  you  want  to  write,  Missy  ? " 

"I  don't  know,  exactly.  When  I  can,  I'd  like  to 
write  something  sort  of  political — or  cosmic." 

"Oh,"  said  Ed  Martin,  nodding.  He  shuffled  the 
papers  some  more.  Then:  "Well,  when  that  kind 
of  a  germ  gets  into  the  system,  I  guess  the  best  thing 
to  do  is  to  get  it  out  before  it  causes  mischief.  If  it 
coagulates  in  the  system,  it  can  cause  a  lot  of  mis- 
chief/' 

Just  what  did  he  mean? 

"Yes,  a  devil  of  a  lot  of  mischief,"  he  went  on. 
"But  the  trouble  is,  Missy,  we  haven't  got  any  job 
on  politics  or — or  the  cosmos  open  just  now.  But — " 

He  paused,  gazing  over  her  head.  Missy  felt  her 
heart  pause,  too. 

"Oh,  any^kind  of  a  writing  job,"  she  proffered 
quaveringly. 

"I  can't  think  of  anything  here  that's  not  taken 
care  of,  except" — his  glance  fell  on  the  ornate- 
looking  "society  page"  of  the  Macon  City  Sunday 
Journal,  spread  out  on  his  desk — "a  society  column." 

In  her  swift  breath  of  ecstasy  Missy  forgot  to 
note  the  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

"Oh,  I'd  love  to  write  society  things!" 


Missy  Cans  the  Cosmos  329 

Ed  Martin  sat  regarding  her  with  a  strange  expres- 
sion on  his  face. 

"Well,  "  he  said  at  last,  as  if  to  himself,  "why  not?" 
Then,  addressing  her  directly:  "You  may  consider 
yourself  appointed  official  Society  Editor  of  the 
Cherry  vale  Beacon." 

The  title  rolled  with  surpassing  resonance  on 
enchanted  ears.  She  barely  caught  his  next  remark. 

"And  now  about  the  matter  of  salary  —  " 

Salary!     Missy  straightened  up. 

"What  do  you  say  to  five  dollars  a  week?"  he 
asked. 

Five  dollars  a  week!  —  Five  dollars  every  week! 
And  earned  by  herself!  Missy's  eyes  grew  big  as 
suns. 

"Is  that  satisfactory?" 


"Well,  then,"  he  said,  "I'll  give  you  free  rein. 
Just  get  your  copy  in  by  Wednesday  night  —  we  go  to 
press  Thursdays  —  and  I  promise  to  read  every  word 
of  it  myself." 

"Oh,"  she  said. 

There  were  a  thousand  questions  she'd  have  liked 
to  ask,  but  Ed  Martin,  smiling  a  queer  kind  of  smile, 
had  turned  to  his  papers  as  if  anxious  to  get  at  them. 
No;  she  mustn't  begin  by  bothering  him  with  ques- 
tions. He  was  a  busy  man,  and  he'd  put  this  new, 
big  responsibility  on  her  —  "a  free  rein,"  he  had  said. 
And  she  must  live  up  to  that  trust;  she  must  find 
her  own  way  —  study  up  the  problem  of  society  edit- 
ing, which,  even  if  not  her  ideal,  yet  was  a  wedge 


33°  Missy 

to  who-knew-what?  And  meanwhile  perhaps  she 
could  set  a  new  standard  for  society  columns — 
brilliant  and  clever  .  .  . 

Missy  left  the  Beacon  office,  suffused  with  emo- 
tions no  pen,  not  even  her  own,  could  ever  have 
described. 

Ed  Martin,  safely  alone,  allowed  himself  the 
luxury  of  an  extensive  grin.  Then,  even  while  he 
smiled,  his  eyes  sobered. 

"  Poor  young  one."  He  sighed  and  shook  his  head, 
then  took  up  the  editorial  he  was  writing  on  the  de- 
linquencies of  the  local  waterworks  administration. 

Meanwhile  Missy,  moving  slowly  back  up  Main 
Street,  w^as  walking  on  something  much  softer  and 
springier  than  the  board  sidewalk  under  her  feet. 
She  didn't  notice  even  the  cracks,  now.  The  ac- 
quaintances who  passed  her,  and  the  people  sitting 
contentedly  out  on  their  shady  porches,  seemed  in  a 
different  world  from  the  one  she  was  traversing. 
She  had  never  known  this  kind  of  happiness  before — 
exploring  a  dream  country  which  promised  to  become 
real.  Now  and  then  a  tiny  cloud  shadowed  the 
radiance  of  her  emotions:  just  how  would  she  begin? 
— what  should  she  write  about  and  how? — but 
swiftly  her  thoughts  flitted  back  to  that  soft,  warm, 
undefined  deliciousness.  .  .  . 

Society  Editor! — she,  Melissa  Merriam!  Her 
words  would  be  immortalized  in  print!  and  she  would 
soar  up  and  up. ...  Some  day,  in  the  big  magazines 
.  .  .  Everybody  would  read  her  name  there — all 
Cherryvale — and,  perhaps,  Ridgeley  Holman  Dobson 


Missy  Cans  the  Cosmos  331 

would  chance  a  brilliant,  authoritative  article  on 
some  deep,  vital  subject  and  wish  to  meet  the  author. 
She  might  even  have  to  go  to  New  York  to  live — 
New  York!  And  associate  with  the  interesting, 
delightful  people  there.  Maybe  he  lived  in  New 
York,  or,  anyway,  visited  there,  associating  with 
celebrities. 

She  wished  her  skirts  were  long  enough  to  hold  up 
gracefully  like  Polly  Currier  walking  over  there 
across  the  street;  she  wished  she  had  long,  dangling 
ear-rings;  she  wished  .  . 

Dreamy-eyed,  the  Society  Editor  of  the  Cherryvale 
Beacon  turned  in  at  the  Merriam  gate  to  announce 
her  estate  to  an  amazed  family  circle. 

Aunt  Nettie,  of  course,  ejaculated,  "goodness 
gracious!"  and  laughed.  But  mother  was  altogether 
sweet  and  satisfying.  She  looked  a  little  startled  at 
first,  but  she  came  over  and  smoothed  her  daughter's 
hair  while  she  listened,  and,  for  some  reason,  was 
unusually  tender  all  the  afternoon. 

That  evening  at  supper-time,  Missy  noticed  that 
mother  walked  down  the  block  to  meet  father,  and 
seemed  to  be  talking  earnestly  with  him  on  their  way 
toward  the  house.  Missy  hadn't  much  dreaded  fa- 
ther's opposition.  He  was  an  enormous,  silent  man 
and  the  young  people  stood  in  a  certain  awe  of  him, 
but  Missy,  somehow,  felt  closer  to  him  than  to  most 
old  people. 

When  he  came  up  the  steps  to  the  porch  where  she 
waited,  blushing  and  palpitant  but  withal  feeling  a 
sense  of  importance,  he  greeted  her  jovially. 


332  Missy 

"Well,  I  hear  we've  got  a  full-fledged  writer  in  our 
midst!" 

Missy's  blush  deepened. 

"What  /  want  to  know,"  father  continued,  "is 
who's  going  to  darn  my  socks?  I'm  afraid  socks  go 
to  the  dickens  when  genius  flies  in  at  the  window." 

As  Missy  smiled  back  at  him  she  resolved,  despite 
everything,  to  keep  father's  socks  in  better  order 
than  ever  before. 

During  supper  the  talk  kept  coming  back  to  the 
theme  of  her  Work,  but  in  a  friendly,  unscoffing  way 
so  that  Missy  knew  her  parents  were  really  pleased. 
Mother  mentioned  Mrs.  Brooks's  "bridge"  Thurs- 
day afternoon — that  might  make  a  good  write-up. 
And  father  said  he'd  get  her  a  leather-bound  note- 
book next  day.  And  when,  after  supper,  instead  of 
joining  them  on  the  porch,  she  brought  tablet  and 
pencil  and  a  pile  of  books  and  placed  them  on  the 
dining-table,  there  were  no  embarrassing  comments, 
and  she  was  left  alone  with  her  thrills  and  puzzle- 
ments. 

Among  the  books  were  Stevenson's  "Some  Tech- 
nical Considerations  of  Style,"  George  Eliot's  "Ro- 
mola"  and  Carlyle's  "Sartor  Resartus";  the  latter 
two  being  of  the  kind  that  especially  lifted  you  to  a 
mood  of  aching  to  express  things  beautifully.  Missy 
liked  books  that  lifted  you  up.  She  loved  the  long- 
drawn  introspections  of  George  Eliot  and  Augusta  J. 
Evans;  the  tender  whimsy  of  Barrie  as  she'd  met 
him  through  "Margaret  Ogilvie"  and  "Sentimental 
Tommy";  the  fascinating  mysteries  of  Marie  Corelli; 


Missy  Cans  the  Cosmos  333 

the  colourful  appeal  of  "To  Have  and  To  Hold"  and 
the  other  "historical  romances"  which  were  having 
a  vogue  in  that  era;  and  Kipling's  India! — that  was 
almost  best  of  all.  She  had  outgrown  most  of  her 
earlier  loves — Miss  Alcott  whom  she'd  once  known 
intimately,  and  "Little  Lord  Fauntleroy"  and  "The 
Birds'  Christmas  Carol"  had  survived,  too,  her 
brief  illicit  passion  for  the  exotic  product  of  "The 
Duchess."  And  she  didn't  respond  keenly  to  many 
of  the  "best  sellers"  which  were  then  in  their  spec- 
tacular, flamboyantly  advertised  heyday;  somehow 
they  failed  to  stimulate  the  mind,  stir  the  imagina- 
tion, excite  the  emotions — didn't  lift  you  up.  Yet 
she  could  find  plenty  of  books  in  the  Library  which 
satisfied. 

Now  she  sat,  reading  the  introspections  of  "Ro- 
mola"  till  she  felt  her  own  soul  stretching  out — up 
and  beyond  the  gas  table-lamp  glowing  there  in  such 
lovely  serenity  through  its  gold-glass  shade;  felt  it 
aching  to  express  something,  she  knew  not  what. 
Some  day,  perhaps,  after  she  had  written  intellectual 
essays  about  Politics  and  such  things,  she  might 
write  about  Life.  About  Life  itself!  And  the  Cosmos ! 

Her  chin  sank  to  rest  upon  her  palm.  How  beau- 
tiful were  those  pink  roses  in  their  leaf-green  bowl — 
like  a  soft  piece  of  music  or  a  gently  flowing  poem. 
Maybe  Mrs.  Brooks  would  have  floral  decorations  at 
her  bridge-party.  She  hoped  so — then  she  could 
write  a  really  satisfying  kind  of  paragraph — flowers 
were  always  so  inspiring.  Those  pink  petals  were 
just  about  to  fall.  Yet,  somehow,  that  made  them 


334  Missy 

seem  all  the  lovelier.  She  could  almost  write  a  poem 
about  that  idea!  Would  Mr.  Martin  mind  if,  now 
and  then,  she  worked  in  a  little  verse  or  two?  It 
would  make  Society  reporting  more  interesting.  For, 
she  had  to  admit,  Society  Life  in  Cherryvale  wasn't 
thrilling.  Just  lawn-festivals  and  club  meetings  and 
picnics  at  the  Waterworks  and  occasional  afternoon 
card-parties  where  the  older  women  wore  their  Sun- 
day silks  and  exchanged  recipes  and  household  gos- 
sip. If  only  there  was  something  interesting — just  a 
little  dash  of  "atmosphere."  If  only  they  drank  af- 
ternoon tea,  or  talked  about  Higher  Things,  or 
smoked  cigarettes,  or  wore  long  ear-rings !  But,  per- 
haps, some  day — in  New  York  .  .  . 

Missy's  head  drooped;  she  felt  deliciously  drowsy. 
Into  the  silence  of  her  dreams  a  cheerful  voice  in- 
truded : 

"Missy,  dear,  it's  after  ten  o'clock  and  you're  nod- 
ding! Oughtn't  you  go  up  to  bed?" 

"All  right,  mother."  Obediently  she  took  her 
dreams  upstairs  with  her,  and  into  her  little  white 
bed. 

Thursday  afternoon,  all  shyness  and  importance 
strangely  compounded,  Missy  carried  a  note-book  to 
Mrs.  Brooks's  card-party.  It  was  agreeable  to  hear 
Mrs.  Brooks  effusively  explain:  "Missy's  working 
on  the  Beacon  now,  you  know";  and  to  feel  two 
dozen  pairs  of  eyes  upon  her  as  she  sat  writing  down 
the  list  of  guests;  and  to  be  specially  led  out  to  view 
the  refreshment-table.  There  was  a  profusion  of 
flowers,  but  as  Mrs.  Brooks  didn't  have  much 


Missy  Cans  the  Cosmos  335 

"taste"  Missy  didn't  catch  the  lilt  of  inspiration  she 
had  hoped  for. 

However,  after  she  had  worked  her  "write-up" 
over  several  times,  she  prefixed  a  paragraph  on  the 
decorations  which  she  hoped  would  atone  for  the 
drab  prosiness  of  the  rest.  It  ran: 

"Through  the  softly-parted  portieres  which  sepa- 
rate Mrs.  J.  Barton  Brooks's  back-parlour  from  the 
dining  room  came  a  gracious  emanation  of  scent  and 
colour.  I  stopped  for  a  moment  in  the  doorway,  and 
saw,  abloom  there  before  me,  a  magical  maze  of 
flowers.  Flowers!  Oh,  multifold  fragrance  and 
tints  divine  which  so  ineffably  enrich  our  lives! 
Does  anyone  know  whence  they  come?  Those 
fragile  fairy  creatures  whose  housetop  is  the  sky; 
wakened  by  golden  dawn;  for  whom  the  silver  moon 
sings  lullaby.  Yes;  sunlight  it  is,  and  blue  sky  and 
green  earth,  that  endow  them  with  their  mysterious 
beauty;  these,  and  the  haze  of  rain  that  filters  down 
when  clouds  rear  their  sullen  heads.  Sun  and  sky, 
and  earth  and  rain;  they  alone  may  know — know 
the  secrets  of  these  fairy-folk  who,  from  their  slyly- 
opened  petals,  watch  us  at  our  hurrying  business  of 
life.  We,  mere  humans,  can  never  know.  With  us 
it  must  suffice  to  sweeten  our  hearts  with  the  memory 
of  fragrant  flowers." 

She  was  proud  of  that  opening  paragraph.  But 
Ed  Martin  blue-pencilled  it. 

"Short  of  space  this  week,"  he  said.  "Either  the 
flowers  must  go  or  'those  present.'  It's  always  best 
to  print  names." 


336  Missy 

"Is  the  rest  of  it  all  right?"  asked  Missy,  crest- 
fallen. 

"Well,"  returned  Ed,  with  whom  everything  had 
gone  wrong  that  day  and  who  was  too  hurried  to 
remember  the  fluttering  pinions  of  Youth,  "I  guess 
it's  printable,  anyhow." 

It  was  "printable,"  and  it  did  come  out  in  print — 
that  was  something!  For  months  the  printed 
account  of  Mrs.  Brooks's  "bridge"  was  treasured 
in  the  Merriam  archives,  to  be  brought  out  and 
passed  among  admiring  relatives.  Yes,  that  was 
something! 

But,  as  habitude  does  inevitably  bring  a  certain 
staleness,  so,  as  the  pile  of  little  clipped  reports  grew 
bigger  Missy's  first  prideful  swell  in  them  grew  less. 
Perhaps  it  would  have  been  different  had  not  the 
items  always  been,  perforce,  so  much  the  same. 
There  was  so  little  chance  to  be  "original" — one 
must  use  the  same  little  forms  and  phrases  over  and 
over  again:  "A  large  gathering  assembled  on 
Monday  night  at  the  home  of — "  "Mrs.  So-and-so, 
who  has  been  here  visiting  Mrs.  What's-her-name, 
has  returned — "  One  must  crowd  as  much  as 
possible  into  as  little  space  as  possible.  That  was 
hard  on  Missy,  who  loved  words  and  what  words 
could  do.  She  wasn't  allowed  much  latitude  with 
words  even  for  "functions."  " Function "  itself  had 
turned  out  to  be  one  of  her  most  useful  words  since 
it  got  by  Ed  Martin  and,  at  the  same  time,  lent  the 
reported  affair  a  certain  distinguished  air. 

It  was  at  a  function — an  ice-cream  festival  given 


Missy  Cans  the  Cosmos  337 

by  the  Presbyterian  ladies  on  Mrs.  Paul  Bonner's 
lawn — that  Missy  met  Archie  Briggs. 

She  had  experienced  a  curious,  vague  stir  of 
emotions  about  going  to  the  Bonner  home  that 
evening;  it  was  the  first  time  she'd  ever  gone  there 
when  Raymond  Bonner  wasn't  present.  Raymond 
was  the  handsomest  and  most  popular  boy  in  her 
"crowd,"  and  she  used  to  be  secretly  pleased  when 
he  openly  admired  her  more  than  he  did  the  other 
girls — indeed,  there  had  been  certain  almost  senti- 
mental passages  between  Raymond  and  Missy.  Of 
course  all  that  happened  before  her  horizon  had 
"broadened" — before  she  encountered  a  truly  dis- 
tinguished person  like  Ridgeley  Holman  Dobson. 
Yet  memories  can  linger  to  disturb,  and  Missy  was 
accompanied  by  memories  that  moonlit  Wednesday 
evening  when,  in  her  "best"  dress  of  pale  pink 
organdie,  she  carried  her  note-book  to  the  Bonners' 
to  report  the  lawn-festival. 

She  had  hesitated  over  the  pink  organdie;  not 
many  of  the  "crowd"  were  going,  and  it  was  to  be 
for  her  a  professional  rather  than  a  social  occasion. 
Perhaps  it  was  sentiment  that  carried  the  day.  Any- 
way, she  was  soon  to  be  glad  she'd  worn  the  pink 
organdie. 

Before  she  had  a  chance  to  get  in  any  professional 
work,  Mrs.  Bonner  bore  down  on  her  with  a  tall 
young  man,  a  stranger. 

"Oh,  Missy!  I  want  you  to  meet  Raymond's 
cousin,  Archie  Briggs.  Archie,  this  is  one  of  Ray- 
mond's friends,  Miss  Merriam." 


33  8  Missy 

Missy  was  grateful  for  that  "Miss  Merriam." 

"Pleased  to  meet  you,  Miss  Merriam,"  said  Mr. 
Briggs.  He  was  dark  and  not  very  good-looking — 
not  nearly  so  good-looking  as  Raymond — but  there 
was  something  in  his  easy,  self-assured  manner  that 
struck  her  as  very  distingu£.  She  was  impressed, 
too,  by  the  negligent  way  in  which  he  wore  his 
clothes;  not  nearly  so  "dressed-up"  looking  as  the 
Cherryvale  boys,  yet  in  some  subtle  way  declassing 
them.  She  was  pleased  that  he  seemed  to  be  pleased 
with  her;  he  asked  her  to  "imbibe"  stome  ice-cream 
with  him. 

They  sat  at  one  of  the  little  tables  out  on  the  edge 
of  the  crowd.  From  there  the  coloured  paper  lanterns, 
swaying  on  the  porch  and  strung  like  fantastic 
necklaces  across  the  lawn,  were  visible  yet  not  too 
near;  far  enough  away  to  make  it  all  look  like  an 
unreal,  colourful  picture.  And,  above  all,  a  round 
orange  moon  climbing  up  the  sky,  covering  the 
scene  with  light  as  with  golden  water,  and  sending 
black  shadows  to  crawl  behind  bushes  and  trees. 
It  was  all  very  beautiful;  and  Mr.  Briggs,  though  he 
didn't  speak  of  the  scene  at  all,  made  a  peculiarly 
delightful  companion  for  that  setting.  He  was 
"interesting." 

He  talked  easily  and  in  a  way  that  put  her  at  her 
ease.  She  learned  that  he  and  his  sister,  Louise, 
had  stopped  off  in  Cherryvale  for  a  few  days;  they 
were  on  their  way  back  to  their  home  in  Keokuk, 
Iowa,  from  a  trip  to  California.  Had  Miss  Merriam 
ever  been  in  California? 


Missy  Cans  the  Cosmos  339 

No;  she'd  never  been  in  California.  Missy  hated 
to  make  the  admission;  but  Mr.  Briggs  seemed  the 
kind  of  youth  not  to  hold  it  against  a  pretty  girl  to 
give  him  a  chance  to  exploit  his  travels.  She  was  a 
flattering  listener.  And  when,  after  California  had 
been  disposed  of,  he  made  a  wide  sweep  to  "the 
East,"  where,  it  developed,  he  attended  college — 
had  Miss  Merriam  ever  been  back  East? 

No;  she'd  never  been  back  East.  And  then,  with  a 
big-eyed  and  appreciatively  murmuring  auditor,  he 
dilated  on  the  supreme  qualities  of  that  foreign 
spot,  on  the  exotic  delights  of  football  and  regattas 
and  trips  down  to  New  York  for  the  "shows."  Yes, 
he  was  "interesting"!  Listening,  Missy  forgot  even 
Mr.  Ridgeley  Holman  Dobson.  Here  was  one  who 
had  travelled  far,  who  had  seen  the  world,  who  had 
drunk  deep  of  life,  and  who,  furthermore,  was  near 
to  her  own  age.  And,  other  things  being  equal, 
nothing  can  call  as  youth  calls  youth.  She  wasn't 
conscious,  at  the  time,  that  her  idol  was  in  danger  of 
being  replaced,  that  she  was  approaching  something 
akin  to  faithlessness;  but  something  came  about  soon 
which  brought  her  a  vague  disturbance. 

Missy,  who  had  all  but  forgotten  that  she  was 
here  for  a  serious  purpose,  suddenly  remembered 
she  had  to  get  her  "copy"  into  the  office  by  ten 
o'clock;  for  the  paper  went  to  press  next  morning. 

"  I  must  go  now  and  see  some  of  the  ladies, "  she 
said  reluctantly. 

"Well,  of  course,  if  you'd  rather  talk  to  the 
ladies — "  responded  Mr.  Briggs,  banteringly. 


34°  Missy 

"Oh,  it's  not  that!'*  She  felt  a  sense  of  satis- 
faction in  her  own  importance  as  she  went  on  to 
explain: 

"I  want  to  ask  details  and  figures  and  so  forth  for 
my  report  in  the  paper — I'm  society  editor  of  the 
Beacon,  you  know." 

"  Society  editor ! — you?     For  Pete's  sake ! " 

At  first  Missy  took  his  tone  to  denote  surprised 
admiration,  and  her  little  thrill  of  pride  intensified. 
But  he  went  on: 

"What  on  earth  are  you  wasting  time  on  things 
like  that  for?" 

"Wasting  time — ?"  she  repeated.  Her  voice 
wavered  a  little. 

"I'd  never  have  suspected  you  of  being  a  high- 
brow," Mr.  Briggs  continued. 

Missy  felt  a  surge  akin  to  indignation — he  didn't 
seem  to  appreciate  her  importance,  after  all.  But 
resentment  swiftly  gave  way  to  a  kind  of  alarm: 
why  didn't  he  appreciate  it? 

"Don't  you  like  highbrows?"  she  asked,  trying  to 
smile. 

"Oh,  I  suppose  they're  all  right  in  their  place," 
said  Mr.  Briggs  lightly.  "But  I  never  dreamed  you 
were  a  highbrow." 

It  was  impossible  not  to  gather  that  this  poised 
young  man  of  the  world  esteemed  her  more  highly 
in  his  first  conception  of  her.  Impelled  by  the 
eternal  feminine  instinct  to  catch  at  possibly  flattering 
personalities,  Missy  asked: 

"What  did  you  think  I  was?" 


Missy  Cans  the  Cosmos  341 

"Well,"  replied  Mr.  Briggs,  smiling,  "I  thought 
you  were  a  mighty  pretty  girl — the  prettiest  I've 
seen  in  this  town."  (Missy  couldn't  hold  down  a 
fluttering  thrill,  even  though  she  felt  a  premonition 
that  certain  lofty  ideals  were  about  to  be  assailed.) 
"The  kind  of  girl  who  likes  to  dance  and  play  tennis 
and  be  a  good  sport,  and  all  that." 

"But  can't  a — "  Missy  blushed;  she'd  almost 
said  "a  pretty  girl."  "Can't  that  kind  of  girl  be — 
intellectual,  too?" 

"The  saints  forbid!"  ejaculated  Mr.  Briggs  with 
fervour. 

"But  don't  you  think  that  everyone  ought  to  try 
to  enlarge  one's  field  of  vision?" 

At  that  Mr.  Briggs  threw  back  his  head  and 
laughed  a  laugh  of  unrestrained  delight. 

"Oh,  it's  too  funny!"  he  chortled.  "That  line  of 
talk  coming  from  a  girl  who  looks  like  you  do!" 

Even  at  that  disturbed  moment,  when  she  was 
hearing  sacrilege  aimed  at  her  most  cherished  ideals 
— perilously  swaying  ideals,  had  she  but  realized  it — 
Missy  caught  the  pleasing  significance  of  his  last 
phrase,  and  blushed  again.  Still  she  tried  to  stand 
up  for  those  imperilled  ideals,  forcing  herself  to  ask: 

"But  surely  you  admire  women  who  achieve — 
women  like  George  Eliot  and  Frances  Hodgson 
Burnett  and  all  those?" 

"I'd  hate  to  have  to  take  one  of  them  to  a  dance," 
said  Mr.  Briggs. 

Missy  turned  thoughtful;  there  were  sides  to 
"achievement"  she  hadn't  taken  into  consideration. 


342  Missy 

"Speaking  of  dances,"  Mr.  Briggs  was  continu- 
ing, "my  aunt's  going  to  give  Louise  and  me  a 
party  before  we  go — maybe  Saturday  night." 

A  party!  Missy  felt  a  thrill  that  wasn't  profes- 
sional. 

Mr.  Briggs  leaned  closer,  across  the  little  table. 

"If  you're  not  already  booked  up,"  he  said,  "may 
I  call  for  you  Saturday  night?" 

Missy  was  still  disturbed  by  some  of  the  things 
Mr.  Briggs  had  said.  But  it  was  certainly  pleasant 
to  have  a  visiting  young  man — a  young  man  who 
lived  in  Keokuk  and  travelled  in  California  and  at- 
tended college  in  the  East — choose  her  for  his  part- 
ner at  his  own  party. 

Later  that  night  at  the  Beacon  office,  after  she 
had  turned  in  her  report  of  the  Presbyterian  ladies' 
ffoe,  she  lingered  at  her  desk.  She  was  in  the  throes 
of  artistic  production: 

"Mr.  Archibald  Briggs  of  Keokuk  is  visiting  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Paul  Bonner." 

That  was  too  bald;  not  rich  enough.  She  tried 
again: 

"Mr.  Archibald  Briggs  of  Keokuk,  Iowa,  is  visiting  at  the 
residence  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Paul  Bonner  on  Maple  Avenue." 

Even  that  didn't  lift  itself  up  enough  out  of  the 
ordinary.  Missy  puckered  her  brows;  a  moist  lock 
fell  down  and  straggled  across  her  forehead.  With 
interlineations,  she  enlarged : 

"Mr.  Archibald  Briggs,  who  has  been  travelling  in  California 
and  the  Far  West,  on  his  way  to  his  home  in  Keokuk,  Iowa,  is 


Missy  Cans  the  Cosmos  343 

visiting  at  the  residence  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Paul  Bonner  'in  Maple 
Avenue." 

An  anxious  scrutiny;  and  then  "on  his  way"  was 
amended  to  "en  route." 

That  would  almost  do.  And  then,  as  she  regarded 
the  finished  item,  a  curious  feeling  crept  over  her:  a 
sort  of  reluctance,  distaste  for  having  it  printed — 
printing  it  herself,  as  it  were.  That  seemed,  some- 
how, too — too  public.  And  then,  as  she  sat  in  a  maze 
of  strange  emotions,  a  sudden  thought  came  to  the 
rescue : 

His  sister — Louise!  She'd  forgotten  to  include 
Louise!  How  terrible  if  she'd  left  out  his  sister! 
And  adding  the  second  name  would  remove  the  per- 
sonal note.  She  quickly  interlined  again,  and  the 
item  stood  complete: 

"Mr.  Archibald  Briggs  and  Miss  Louise  Briggs,  who  have 
been  travelling  in  California  and  the  Far  West,  en  route  to  their 
home  in  Keokuk,  Iowa,  are  visiting  at  the  residence  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Paul  Bonner  in  Maple  Avenue." 

As  her  father  entered  the  office  to  take  her  home, 
Missy  gave  a  deep  sigh,  a  sigh  of  mingled  satisfac- 
tion and  exhaustion  such  as  seals  a  difficult  task 
well  done. 

Late  as  it  was  when  she  reached  home,  Missy  lin- 
gered long  before  her  mirror.  With  the  aid  of  a 
hand-glass  she  critically  studied  her  pink  organdie 
from  every  angle.  She  wished  she  had  a  new  dress; 
a  delicate  wispy  affair  of  cream  net — the  colour  of 
moonlight — would  be  lovely  and  aristocratic-look- 
ing. And  with  some  subtle  but  distinguished  colour 


344  Missy 

combination,  like  dull  blue  and  lilac,  for  the  girdle. 
That  would  be  heavenly.  But  one  can't  have  a  new 
dress  for  every  party.  Missy  sighed,  and  tilted  back 
the  dresser  mirror  so  as  to  catch  the  swing  of  skirt 
about  her  shoe-tops.  She  wished  the  skirt  was  long 
and  trailing;  there  was  a  cluster  of  tucks  above  the 
hem — maybe  mother  would  allow  her  to  let  one  out; 
she'd  ask  to-morrow. 

Then  she  tilted  the  mirror  back  to  its  normal  po- 
sition; maybe  mother  would  allow  her  to  turn  in  the 
neck  just  a  wee  bit  lower — like  this.  That  glimpse 
of  throat  would  be  pretty,  especially  with  some  kind 
of  necklace.  She  got  out  her  string  of  coral.  No. 
The  jagged  shape  of  coral  was  effective  and  the  col- 
our was  effective,  but  it  didn't  "go"  with  pale  pink. 
She  held  up  her  string  of  pearl  beads.  That  was 
better.  But  ah!  if  only  she  had  some  long  pearl  pen- 
dants, to  dangle  down  from  each  ear;  she  knew  just 
how  to  arrange  her  hair — something  like  Lady  Syl- 
via Southwoode's — so  as  to  set  them  off. 

She  was  engaged  in  parting  her  hair  in  the  centre 
and  rolling  it  back  in  simple  but  aristocratic-look- 
ing "puffs"  on  either  side — she  did  look  the  least  bit 
like  Lady  Sylvia! — when  she  heard  her  mother's 
voice  calling: 

"Missy!  haven't  you  gone  to  bed  yet?" 

"No,  mother,"  she  answered  meekly,  laying  down 
the  brush  very  quietly. 

"What  on  earth  are  you  doing?" 

"Nothing — I'm  going  to  bed  right  now,"  she  an- 
swered, more  meekly  yet. 


Missy  Cans  the  Cosmos  345 

"You'd  better,"  came  the  unseen  voice.  "You've 
got  to  get  up  early  if  you're  going  to  the  picnic." 

The  picnic — oh,  bother!  Missy  had  forgotten  the 
picnic.  If  it  had  been  a  picnic  of  her  own  "crowd" 
she  would  not  have  forgotten  it,  but  she  was  attend- 
ing this  function  because  of  duty  instead  of  pleasure. 
And  it  isn't  especially  interesting  to  tag  along  with 
a  lot  of  children  and  their  Sunday-school  teachers. 
She  wondered  if,  maybe,  she  could  manage  to  get 
her  "report"  without  actually  going. 

But  she'd  already  forgotten  the  picnic  by  the  time 
she  crept  into  her  little  bed,  across  which  the  moon, 
through  the  window,  spread  a  shining  breadth  of  sil- 
ver. She  looked  at  the  strip  of  moonlight  drowsily — 
how  beautiful  moonlight  was !  And  when  it  gleam- 
ed down  on  dewy  grass  .  .  .  everything  outdoors 
white  and  magical  .  .  .  and  dancing  on  the  porch 
...  he  must  be  a  wonderful  dancer — those  college 
boys  always  were  .  .  .  music  .  .  .  the  scent  of 
flowers  .  .  .  "the  prettiest  girl  I've  seen  in  this 
town"  .  .  . 

Yes;  the  bothersome  picnic  was  forgotten;  and  the 
Beacon,  alluring  stepping-stone  to  achievements  un- 
told; yes,  even  Ridgeley  Holman  Dobson  himself. 
The  moon,  moving  its  gleaming  way  slowly  up  the 
coverlet,  touched  tenderly  the  face  of  the  sleeper, 
kissed  the  lips  curved  into  a  soft,  dreaming  smile. 

Missy  went  to  the  picnic  next  day,  for  her  mother 
was  unsympathetic  toward  the  suggestion  of  con- 
triving a  "report.'*  "Now,  Missy,  don't  begin  that 
again!  You're  always  starting  out  to  ride  some  en- 


346  Missy 

thusiasm  hard,  and  then  letting  it  die  down.  You 
must  learn  to  see  things  through.  Now,  go  and  get 
your  lunch  ready." 

Missy  meekly  obeyed.  It  wasn't  the  first  time 
she'd  been  rebuked  for  her  unstable  temperament. 
She  was  meek  and  abashed;  yet  it  is  not  uninterest- 
ing to  know  one  possesses  an  unstable  temperament 
which  must  be  looked  after  lest  it  prove  dangerous. 
•  The  picnic  was  as  dull  as  she  had  feared  it  would  be. 
She  usually  liked  children  but,  that  day,  the  children 
at  first  were  too  riotously  happy  and  then,  as  they 
tired  themselves  out,  got  cross  and  peevish.  Espe- 
cially the  Smith  children.  One  of  the  teachers  said 
the  oldest  little  Smith  girl  seemed  to  have  fever;  she 
was  sick — as  if  that  excused  her  acting  like  a  little 
imp!  She  ought  to  have  been  kept  at  home — the 
whole  possessed  Smith  tribe  ought  to  have  been  kept 
at  home ! 

Missy  wished  she  herself  were  at  home.  She'd 
probably  missed  a  telephone  call  from  Mr.  Briggs — 
he  had  said  he  might  call  up.  She  could  hardly  wait 
to  reach  home  and  find  out. 

Yes;  he  had  telephoned.  Also  Mrs.  Bonner,  in- 
viting Missy  to  a  party  on  Saturday  night.  Missy 
brightened.  She  broached  the  subject  of  letting  out 
a  tuck.  But  mother  said  the  pink  organdie  was  long 
enough — too  long,  really.  And  Aunt  Nettie  chimed 
in:  ' 

"Why  is  it  that  girls  can  never  get  old  quickly 
enough  ?  The  time'll  come  soon  enough  when  they'll 
wish  they  could  wear  short  dresses  again!" 


Missy  Cans  the  Cosmos  347 

Missy  listened  with  inner  rebellion.  Why  did  old 
people  always  talk  that  way — that  "you-don't-ap- 
preciate-you're-having-the-best-time-of-your-life" 
sort  of  thing? 

Next  day  was  Friday — the  day  before  the  party. 
It  was  also  "cleaning  day"  at  the  Merriams'  and, 
though  Missy  felt  lassitudinous  and  headachy,  she 
put  extra  vim  into  her  share  of  the  work;  for  she 
wished  to  coax  from  mother  a  new  sash,  at  least. 
But  when  Saturday  came  she  didn't  mention  the 
sash;  her  headache  had  increased  to  such  a  persist- 
ent throbbing  she  didn't  feel  like  going  down  to  look 
over  the  Bonner  Mercantile  Co.'s  stock  of  ribbons. 
She  was  having  trouble  enough  concealing  her  phys- 
ical distress.  At  dinner  mother  had  noticed  that  she 
ate  almost  nothing;  and  at  supper  she  said: 

"Don't  you  feel  well,  Missy?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  feel  all  right — fine!"  replied  Missy, 
trying  to  assume  a  sprightly  air. 

"You  look  flushed  to  me.  And  sort  of  heavy 
around  the  eyes — don't  you  think  so,  papa?" 

"She  does  look  sort  of  peaked,"  affirmed  Mr.  Mer- 
riam. 

"She's  been  dragging  around  all  day,"  went  on 
the  mother.  Missy  tried  harder  than  ever  to  "perk 
up" — if  they  found  out  about  the  headache,  like  as 
not  they'd  put  a  taboo  on  the  party — grown-ups  were 
so  unreasonable.  Parties  were  good  for  headaches. 

"I  heard  over  at  Mrs.  Allen's  this  afternoon," 
Aunt  Nettie  put  in,  "that  there's  measles  in  town. 
All  the  Smith  children  are  down  with  it." 


348  Missy 

Missy  recalled  the  oldest  little  Smith  girl,  with 
the  fever,  at  the  picnic,  but  said  nothing. 

"I  wonder  if  Missy  could  have  run  into  it  any- 
where," said  mother  anxiously. 

"Me?"  ejaculated  the  Society  Editor,  disdainfully. 
"Children  have  measles!" 

"Children!  Listen  to  her!"  jeered  Aunt  Nettie 
with  delight. 

"I've  had  the  measles,"  Missy  went  on.  "And 
anyway  I  feel  fine!"  So  saying,  she  set  to  to  make 
herself  eat  the  last  mouthful  of  the  blackberry  cob- 
bler she  didn't  want. 

It  was  hard  to  concentrate  on  her  toilette  with 
the  fastidious  care  she  would  have  liked.  Her  arms 
were  so  heavy  she  could  scarcely  lift  them  to  her 
head,  and  her  head  itself  seemed  to  have  jagged 
weights  rolling  inside  at  her  slightest  movement. 
She  didn't  feel  up  to  experimenting  with  the  new 
coiffure  &  la  Lady  Sylvia  Southwoode;  even  the  ex- 
ertion of  putting  up  her  hair  the  usual  way  made 
her  uncomfortably  conscious  of  the  blackberry  cob- 
bler. 

She  wasn't  yet  dressed  when  Mr.  Briggs  called 
for  her.  Mother  came  in  to  help. 

"Sure  you  feel  all  right?"  she  enquired  solici- 
tously. 

"Oh,  yes— fine!"  said  Missy. 

She  was  glad,  on  the  rather  long  walk  to  the 
Bonners',  that  Mr.  Briggs  was  so  easy  to  talk  to — 
which  meant  that  Mr.  Briggs  did  most  of  the  talking. 
Even  at  that  it  was  hard  to  concentrate  on  his  con- 


Missy  Cans  the  Cosmos  349 

versation  sufficiently  to  make  the  right  answers  in 
the  occasional  lulls. 

And  things  grew  harder,  much  harder,  during  the 
first  dance.  The  guests  danced  through  the  big 
double  parlours  and  out  the  side  door  on  to  the  big, 
deep  porch.  It  was  inspiringly  beautiful  out  there 
on  the  porch:  the  sweet  odour  of  honeysuckle  and 
wistaria  and  "mock  orange"  all  commingled;  and 
the  lights  shining  yellow  out  of  the  windows,  and  the 
paler,  glistening  light  of  the  moon  spreading  its 
fairy  whiteness  everywhere.  It  was  inspiringly 
beautiful;  and  the  music  was  divine — Charley 
Kelley's  orchestra  was  playing;  and  Mr.  Briggs  was  a 
wonderful  dancer.  But  Missy  couldn't  forget  the 
oppressive  heat,  or  the  stabbing  weights  in  her  head, 
or,  worse  yet,  that  blackberry  cobbler. 

As  Mr.  Briggs  was  clapping  for  a  second  encore, 
she  said  tremulously: 

"Will  you  excuse  me  a  minute? — I  must  run  up- 
stairs— I  forgot  my  handkerchief." 

"Let  me  get  it  for  you,"  offered  Mr.  Briggs  gal- 
lantly. 

"No!  oh,  no!"  Her  tone  was  excited  and,  almost 
frantically,  she  turned  and  ran  into  the  house  and 
up  the  stairs. 

Up  there,  in  the  bedroom  which  was  temporarily 
the  "ladies'  cloak-room, "prostrate  on  the  bed,  Mrs. 
Bonner  found  her  later.  Missy  protested  she  was 
now  feeling  better,  though  she  thought  she'd  just  lie 
quiet  awhile.  She  insisted  that  Mrs.  Bonner  make 
no  fuss  and  go  back  down  to  her  guests. 


35°  Missy 

Mrs.  Bonner,  after  bringing  a  damp  towel  and 
some  smelling-salts,  left  her.  But  presently  Missy 
heard  the  sound  of  tip-toeing  steps,  and  lifted  a 
corner  of  the  towel  from  off  her  eyes.  There  stood 
Mr.  Briggs. 

"  Say,  this  is  too  bad ! "  he  commiserated.  "  How's 
the  head?'' 

"It's  better,"  smiled  Missy  wanly.  It  wasn't 
better,  in  fact,  but  a  headache  isn't  without  its 
advantages  when  it  makes  a  young  man  forsake 
dancing  to  be  solicitous. 

"Sure  it's  better?" 

"Sure,"  replied  Missy,  her  smile  growing  a  shade 
more  wan. 

"Because  if  it  isn't — "  Mr.  Briggs  began  to  rub  his 
palms  together  briskly — "I've  got  electricity  in  my 
hands,  you  know.  Maybe  I  could  rub  it  away." 

"Oh,"  said  Missy. 

Her  breathing  quickened.  The  thought  of  his 
rubbing  her  headache  away,  his  hands  against  her 
brow,  was  alarming  yet  exhilarating.  She  glanced 
up  as  she  felt  him  removing  the  towel  from  her 
head,  then  quickly  down  again.  She  felt,  even 
though  her  face  was  already  fiery  hot,  that  she  was 
blushing.  She  was  embarrassed,  her  head  was  rack- 
ing, but  on  the  whole  she  didn't  dislike  the  situation. 

Mr.  Briggs  unlinked  his  cuffs,  turned  back  his 
sleeves,  laid  his  palms  on  her  burning  brow,  and 
began  a  slow,  pressing  movement  outward,  in  both 
directions,  toward  her  temples. 

"That  feel  good?"  he  asked. 


Missy  Cans  the  Cosmos  351 

"Yes,"  murmured  Missy.  She  could  scarcely 
voice  the  word ;  for,  in  fact,  the  pressure  of  his  hands 
seemed  to  send  those  horrible  weights  joggling 
worse  than  ever,  seemed  to  intensify  the  uneasiness 
in  her  throat — though  she  wouldn't  for  worlds  let 
Mr.  Briggs  think  her  unappreciative  of  his  kindness. 

The  too-kind  hands  stroked  maddeningly  on. 

"Feel  better  now?" 

"Yes,"  she  gasped. 

Things,  suddenly,  seemed  going  black.  If  he'd 
only  stop  a  minute!  Wouldn't  he  ever  stop?  How 
could  she  make  him  stop?  What  could  she  do? 
The  whole  world,  just  then,  seemed  to  be  composed 
of  the  increasing  tumult  in  her  throat,  the  piercing 
conflict  in  her  head,  and  those  maddening  strokes — 
strokes — strokes — strokes.  How  long  could  she 
stand  it? 

Presently,  after  eons  it  seemed,  she  desperately 
evoked  a  small,  jerky  voice. 

"I  think — it  must — be  getting  worse.  Thanks, 
but —  Oh,  won't  you — please — go  awciy  ? " 

She  didn't  open  her  eyes  to  see  whether  Mr. 
Briggs  looked  hurt,  didn't  open  them  to  see  him 
leave  the  room.  She  was  past  caring,  now,  whether 
he  was  hurt  or  not.  She  thought  she  must  be  dying. 

And  she  thought  she  must  be  dying,  later,  while 
Mrs.  Bonner,  aided  by  a  fluttering,  murmuring 
Louise,  attended  her  with  sympathetic  ministra- 
tions; and  again  while  she  was  being  taken  home  by 
Mr.  Bonner  in  the  Bonner  surrey — she  had  never 
dreamed  a  surrey  could  bump  and  lurch  and  jostle  so. 


352  Missy 

But  people  seldom  die  of  measles;  and  that  was 
what  young  Doc  Alison,  next  morning,  diagnosed  her 
malady.  It  seemed  that  there  is  more  than  one 
kind  of  measles  and  that  one  can  go  on  having  one 
variety  after  another,  ad  nauseam,  so  to  speak. 

"The  case  is  well  developed — you  should  have 
called  me  yesterday,"  said  young  Doc  rebukingly. 

"I  knew  you  were  sick  yesterday!"  chided  mother. 
"And  to  think  I  let  you  go  to  that  party!" 

"Party?"  queried  young  Doc.  "What  party?— 
when?" 

Then  he  heard  about  the  function  at  the  Bonners', 
and  Missy's  debdcle. 

"Well,"  he  commented,  "I'll  bet  there'll  be  a 
fine  little  aftermath  of  measles  among  the  young 
folks  of  this  town." 

The  doctor's  prophecy  was  to  fulfill  itself.  On 
her  sick-bed  Missy  heard  the  reports  of  this  one 
and  that  one  who,  in  turn,  were  "taken  down." 
For  the  others  she  was  sorry,  but  when  she  learned 
Mr.  Archibald  Briggs  had  succumbed,  she  experi- 
enced poignant  emotions.  Her  emotions  were  min- 
gled: regret  that  she  had  so  poorly  repaid  a  deed  of 
gallant  service  but,  withal,  a  regret  tempered  by  the 
thought  they  were  now  suffering  together — he  ill 
over  there  in  Raymond  Bonner's  room,  she  over  here 
in  hers — enduring  the  same  kind  of  pain,  taking  the 
same  kind  of  medicine,  eating  the  same  uninteresting 
food.  Yes,  it  was  a  bond.  It  even,  at  the  time, 
seemed  a  romantic  kind  of  bond. 

Then,  when  days  of  convalescence  arrived,  she 


Missy  Cans  the  Cosmos  353 

wrote  a  condoling  note  to  the  two  patients  at  the 
Bonners' — for  Louise  had  duly  "taken  down,"  also; 
and  then,  as  her  convalescence  had  a  few  days' 
priority  over  theirs,  she  was  able  to  go  over  and 
visit  them  in  person. 

Friendships  grow  rapidly  when  people  have  just 
gone  through  the  same  sickness;  people  have  so 
much  in  common  to  talk  about,  get  to  know  one 
another  so  much  more  intimately — the  real  essence 
of  one  another.  For  instance  Missy  within  a  few 
days  learned  that  Louise  Briggs  was  an  uncommonly 
nice,  sweet,  "cultured"  girl.  She  enlarged  on  this 
point  when  she  asked  her  mother  to  let  her  accept 
Louise's  invitation  to  visit  in  Keokuk. 

"She's  the  most  refined  girl  I've  ever  met,  mother 
— if  you  know  what  I  mean." 

"Yes — ?"  said  mother,  as  if  inviting  more. 

"She's  going  to  a  boarding-school  in  Washington, 
D.  C.,  this  winter." 

"Yes — ?"  said  mother  again. 

"And  she's  travelled  a  lot,  but  not  a  bit  uppish. 
I  think  that  kind  of  girl  is  a  good  influence  to  have, 
don't  you?" 

Mother,  concentrated  on  an  intricate  place  in  her 
drawn-work,  didn't  at  once  answer.  Missy  gazed 
at  her  eagerly.  At  last  mother  looked  up. 

"But  what  about  your  work  on  the  Beacon?" 
she  asked. 

"Oh,  I've  thought  about  that,"  Missy  returned 
glibly.  "And  I  really  think  a  trip  of  this  kind 
would  do  me  more  good  than  just  hanging  round  a 


354  Missy 

poky  newspaper  office.  Travel,  and  a  different 
sphere — Keokuk's  a  big  town,  and  there  seems  to 
be  a  lot  going  on  there.  It's  really  a  good  chance  to 
enlarge  my  field  of  vision — to  broaden  my  horizon — 
don't  you  see,  mother?" 

Mother  bent  her  head  lower  over  her  work. 

"Are  you  sure  the  thought  of  parties  and  a  lot 
going  on  and — "  mother  paused  a  second — "and 
Archie  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,  dear?" 

Missy  didn't  mind  the  teasing  hint  about  Archie 
when  mother  said  "dear"  in  that  tone.  It  meant 
that  mother  was  weakening. 

Nor  did  thoughts  of  the  abandoned  Cosmos 
trouble  her  very  much  during  the  blissfully  tumultu- 
ous days  of  refurbishing  her  wardrobe  and  packing 
her  trunk.  Nor  when  she  wrote  a  last  society  item 
for  Ed  Martin  to  put  in  the  Beacon: 

"Miss  Melissa  Merriam  of  Locust  Avenue  has  gone  for  a  two 
weeks'  visit  at  the  home  of  Miss  Louise  Briggs  in  Keokuk, 
Iowa." 

The  little  item  held  much  in  its  few  words.  It 
was  a  swan-song. 

As  Ed  Martin  inelegantly  put  it,  in  speaking  later 
with  her  father,  Missy  had  "canned  the  Cosmos." 

THE    END 


THE   COUNTRY   UFE  PRESS,    GARDEN  CITY,   NEW    YORK 


Other  Books  by 
ELIZABETH 


The  Pastor's  Wife 
The  Caravaners 
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Columbus 


These  may  be  bought  in 
limp  leather  bindings. 


DOUBLEDAY, 
PAGE    &    CO. 

Garden  City        New  York 


A  "'•   '•'     Hill  III     (III  f| 

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